


A Will to Power

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Series: This Rocky Road [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brainwashing, Diary/Journal, Disturbing Themes, F/M, Internal Monologue, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Minor Swearing, Multiple Points of View, Nightmares, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Psychological Trauma, Stream of Consciousness, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>I’m having difficulty remembering the past, so I’ve decided to write down what I do remember and when I remember – and possibly what triggered it – to keep it in my head. I do not like the feeling of not knowing. My first memory is a feeling of familiarity with the man on the Helicarrier. The man on the Helicarrier said my name was James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. This is not familiar.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>While Bucky struggles to find the truth in his shattered memories, Steve searches for his best friend, racing against a Hydra desperate to reclaim their lost asset and fighting those who would see Bucky killed for the crimes of the Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for violence, murder - nothing graphic - brainwashing, manipulation, and mind control. If you are uncomfortable with any of these things, I might skip this story.
> 
> This is beta'd by the wonderful and ever-patient [Undercover-Spirker.](http://www.undercover-spirker.tumblr.com) Her advice and comments kept me moving; thank you very much!  
> Comments and suggestions are all very welcome! I love to talk and don't bite, I promise!  
> Thanks and enjoy!

 

> Each of us has within us a weak aspect, eager to give up freedom for the comfort of being dominated. But we also have a will to power that desires freedom - that insists on deciding for ourselves, each of us, individually, what is good, and what is evil.
> 
>                                             - Murder by Numbers

  

April 29 Morning

I’m having difficulty remembering the past, so I’ve decided to write down what I do remember and when I remember – and possibly what triggered it – to keep it in my head. I do not like the feeling of not knowing.

My first memory is a feeling of familiarity with the man on the Helicarrier. I think he’s the one they call Captain America. I remember feeling like I fought him before, but also remembering someone who was like him, only shorter. Not a threat. I do not know if these are the same people, or different. The man on the Helicarrier said my name was James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. This is not familiar.

 

April 30 Afternoon

I went to the Captain America exhibit at a museum today. I have confirmed that the man from the Helicarrier was Captain America. There were stories and footage of a man at the exhibit called Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes. He was Captain America’s second-in-command and Captain Rogers’ closest friend until he died fighting Hydra. He looked like me with shorter hair. He looked exactly like me. No one has told me what to think about this, so I have decided I do not believe in coincidences. I don’t remember anything of what they said about Sergeant Barnes. He grew up with Rogers in a place called Brooklyn, New York. He enlisted into the Army before Rogers was, and was in Europe when he was given the Super Soldier Serum. He was part of the 108th and was captured by Hydra. Rogers came to his rescue – a mission that saved hundreds of men – and then put together a team called the Howling Commandoes to fight Hydra specifically. They were highly successful. James Barnes died on a mission to capture Dr. Amen Zola--

I remember Zola. He was short, overweight. Far smarter and ruthless than the Red Skull ever gave him credit for. He found me in the Alps. His men did. He put the information together based off things the Americans had said to get him to tell them about Red Skull. He despised Red Skull.

He was behind it all; he was there for the beginning, but he didn’t stay. He was not a threat. He designed… my leg. My arm. The machine. He was very proud of that, talking about how he was going to perfect the world. He was not a threat, but I did not like when he was around. Need to find more paper bef

 

 May 03 2014 9:45 pm

I learned the date today. It was on my train ticket. I stole some paper from the station to write this; I am forever out. That is the only thing I find myself lacking.

Looking at the train ticket brought back more memories. The train itself is unfamiliar – I missed the last one; someone tried to kill me and it took too long to dispatch them – but I remember buying the ticket. I thanked the staffer in German by accident, and she smiled at me; I think she thought I was flirting so I smiled back. I don’t think she’ll remember me, she looked too tired. But… kind. She looked kind. That’s the correct word. I think.

I was in Germany the last time I bought a train ticket. Everything was gray. I was cold, my coat had holes and was threadbare everywhere else. They told me I didn’t need a better one; that I wouldn’t be long. I bought the train ticket. The teller was a man. He looked tired, but in a different kind of way. He looked indifferent. He would not remember me. A man – blond hair, blue eyes, gray suit – was following me. I went into the restroom, it was empty, he followed. Had a knife. He was good. We fought, destroyed the room. I cracked his head on the glass and he couldn’t get back up. He said he was British Intelligence. I slit his throat and left the body. I’d missed the train. The ticket was still in my pocket. I stole some white paint and a black pen and altered the time to make the next train. I was going to kill… I was supposed to do surveillance… She was… He…?

It’s right there, I know this, I can feel it. Why can’t I get it? My memory is enhanced so I never forget a mission fact. I should remember this.

Back to World War II Germany. After Zola disclosed Red Skull’s plan, Rogers led a full-scale frontal assault on Red Skull’s main base hidden deep within the Alps. He managed to board Red Skull’s plane as he was taking off and defeated Red Skull and lost the device that powered Hydra weapons. He didn’t know how to pilot the plane and believed it would take too long for the SSR to find a pilot who could, so he crashed it in the Arctic Circle. Seventy years later, a team of scientists looking for oil found it and called in SHIELD, who defrosted Rogers. Rogers continues to carry the mantle of Captain America in the modern world, working with SHIELD and the other Avengers to keep the world safe. I don’t know who the Avengers are.

 

May 04 2014 12:06 pm

I was in a café of some type when someone turned the news on. SHIELD has collapsed, the organization’s secrets – including those of Hydra – exposed to the Internet. Natasha Romanov was acting as the spokeswoman for SHIELD, but she as disappeared. Her picture brought up two different memories: one of a little red-headed girl fighting harder than the others in a Soviet training camp and another of a woman with too many broken bones to move trying to protect a man who was my target. She thought she could keep him safe by staying in front of his head and heart, but I shot him through his eye through her abdomen. I hadn’t seen her since until her picture on the television. I do not know if these two people are the same, or different. Maybe if I meet her ever, I will ask.

I think I would rather not meet her than have the answer to my question.

The American government is starting various missions to find Hydra, though no one seems very serious about it. I do not take their threat seriously. I think Hydra will manage to survive. I remember being told they always will survive. They are very proud of that. I do not doubt it.

Rogers and the man with the wings have yet to be found; both are wanted for questioning by the American Congress, a branch of their government. They are smart. I don’t think they’ll be found.

People are also wondering how the Avengers will react to the fall of SHIELD, who was apparently their primary supporter. No Avenger has been reached yet in reference to this question.

I need a computer if I’m going to answer my questions. I’m going to record them here in case something happens to my memory, as clearly unreliable as it is. That thought is nerve-wracking to me, the knowledge that I may, at this very moment even, be forgetting something vital to my survival.

Questions:

Who are the Avengers

What do the Avengers do

SHIELD history

What is known about Hydra

~~What is known about me (man with metal arm)~~

Rogers’ history

Romanov’s history

Fate of Hydra in SHIELD

 

May 05 2014 4:48 pm

I spent all of last night and this morning pick-pocketing people in a nearby mall. It is surprisingly easy and lucrative. I have bought new clothes that don’t look so… ratty, as the cashier put it. I have enough left over to pay for a cheap hotel for tonight, which is good because I think it will rain.

I also have a small collection of smart phones now. I’ve been using them to answer my questions. I skip the ones that are password protected – only about half – and use the others to search the Internet. I allow myself fifteen minutes on one, then delete the history, wipe it for fingerprints, and leave it where I was sitting. I go to a new location and start again. The process is time consuming as I go at least ten minutes away from my last location and change one thing about my appearance each new time. I’ve burnt through three of my usable phones and can answer my first two questions:

Who are the Avengers

What do the Avengers do

The Avengers are a group of superhumans, people with extraordinary skills not found anywhere else. They consist of six members. Billionaire Anthony Stark, a genius who owns a technology company run by his girlfriend Pepper Potts, was the first to sign his name to the Avengers. He calls himself Iron Man and has built several suits of high-tech armor which he wears to fight the enemy. Weak spots include the arc reactor, the back of the neck, the edges where the face panel connects to the helmet. Places that make the rest of him vulnerable. More simply, separate him from his armor and he is defenseless.

Commander Steven Rogers is also an Avenger, perhaps the most beloved by America. He fights in the Captain America costume and spends the interim fighting for SHIELD. Very little else about him is known, while Stark’s entire life is an open book. I could fight Rogers on his own and win.

The so-called Asgardian god Thor is another Avenger. Formerly the stuff of legend, Asgard has (possibly) turned out to be quite real, and Thor has sworn to protect Earth from all beings who would seek to destroy it. This is what happened in the Battle for New York two years ago, with a race called the Chitari led by trickster god and Thor’s adopted brother, Loki. Thor is said to be stronger than a human and incapable of death, but if I could get under his defenses I believe I could at least incapacitate him.

Bruce Banner, doctorate in physics, is also an Avenger. He was trying to replicate the Super Soldier Serum when he irradiated himself with Gamma Radiation and became a gigantic uncontrollable green monster called the Hulk. Since then, Banner has gained a measure of control over the beast and fought in New York as it. The Hulk I would avoid at all costs. The trick with Banner is to take him out before he knows you’re even there, lest he awaken the Hulk.

The last two Avengers – a man and a woman – appear to be agents of SHIELD, though their identities are unknown. The woman I have identified as Natasha Romanov; she goes under the name Black Widow. The man I have not identified, but I found a decent picture of his face and I will recognize him if I ever see him. He is called Hawkeye. I believe I could take on both separately and win against them.

My threat analysis is that they are highly dangerous. Their primary purpose appears to be simply to defend the Earth from any evil that the usual channels cannot handle. They have only been called into action once, though what they do in their spare time varies with each person. Romanov and her agent, Stark, Rogers, and Thor have all continued defending America and the world as a whole on their won, while Banner dropped off the grid almost immediately.

If I were to eliminate them all, I would shoot them all at a distance, before they even knew I was there. If they were in a group, I would start with Banner, then Stark, then Thor. I would then have to engage the other three in combat, but I am confident I would complete the mission successfully.

I will be done for tonight. I require sleep. I will use the rest of the phones tomorrow and then leave the city. I need to keep moving.

 

May 06 2014 11:17 am

I have much to record. I had a nightmare last night I need to remember, and I have used up the last of the phones attempting to learn all of SHIELD’s secrets. Much of it is irrelevant, but I have learned the identity of several people and agents I do not believe I cannot afford to forget. I will start with the nightmare.

I was uncertain how to classify my dream, and there is no one to do so for me. Normally, I would report to the doctors and they would classify it and then consult a higher authority about what to do, and the problem would be solved. Since this was not going to happen, I did some research and classified it on my own.

The Internet defined a dream as a succession of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations which occur involuntarily during sleep. This was differentiated from nightmares, which specifically cause a negative response and emotions such as fear or horror, but also despair, anxiety, or sadness. Victims often wake in a state of agitation and can find it difficult to return to sleep. My symptoms match specifically with those of a nightmare, so I believe it is appropriate to classify it as such.

In the nightmare, I was on a road at night. The road was isolated and surrounded by trees and other foliage. It was raining. I was alone.

A car came around the corner, driving quickly. I stayed in the shadows and allowed it to approach me. When it was close enough, I shot some type of cable into the front bumper and pulled hard on it. The road was slick enough and the car was moving quickly enough that it was easy to alter its course and it spiraled out of control and off the road before wrapping itself around the trunk of a tree. I approached the car and removed all evidence of the cable. I checked through the windows to ensure the two occupants were dead. The back door opened and I pulled out my gun. A six-year-old child exited the car and smiled up at me. He had black hair and was -wearing a t-shirt with an Iron Man logo on it. I shot him.

It was at this moment that I woke up. I was breathing and perspiring heavily. In the dream, killing the child had seemed simple enough, just an extension of the mission, but in reality it seemed like a… disaster, for lack of better words. I could not stand to know that I had killed him, real or imagined, and got no more sleep that night. My mind is more rational in the light of day, but the nightmare still concerns me. I have had nightmares before, as I’ve said, and am required to report them. I know that they are something to be concerned about, as the doctors often were, but I have no one to go to. I’m out of phones and still don’t know much of what became of my handlers and doctors.

Which brings me to the information I have gathered.

Director Nicolas J. Fury was the director of SHIELD. He was not a public figure, but organized and handled the Avengers. According to SHIELD record, he got into numerous conflicts with the World Security Council, which led to the introduction of Alexander Pierce. Fury is dead, killed by an unknown assassin. I remember the event; I killed him. He’d gotten away from the other forces and had taken exactly the route I predicted. I shot an explosive under his car, but he escaped into the sewers. I tracked him down to Rogers’ apartment with the help of Intelligence, and shot him twice through a wall. Rogers pursued but failed to catch me. More happened after that, but I don’t remember. This is another example of my faulty memory: I didn’t remember the previous encounter with Rogers until reading about Fury and remember my only encounters with him. This is greatly concerning. I am deficient.

The face of Alexander Pierce brought back lots of vague memories mostly filled with sickly-sweet words and pain. I know he was Hydra. I know he believed it when he said I was doing good. I know I relied on his approval, his praise. He was… in control. Of me.

The name of Alexander Pierce belongs to SHIELD. In lieu of Fury’s fights with the Security Council, Pierce was brought in as a middle man. He was an old and trusted friend of Fury’s. He was also head of the Hydra organization in SHIELD and was responsible for the plot revolving around Project Insight that nearly killed an eighth of the world’s population. Fury did not share this goal. He should pick his friends more carefully.

Agent Clint Barton is Hawkeye. Currently on leave and off the grid, he is a long-time agent of SHIELD and also the man who recruited Romanov to the organization. SHIELD believed they had a sexual relationship. He is renowned for his skills as a sniper and known for his choice of weapon: a specially designed high-tech bow and arrow kit. I need to keep looking up. Especially if I see a women with red hair.

Agent Maria Hill was another trusted another trusted friend of Fury’s. She appears to be honest. She was part of the five-man team that brought down SHIELD/Hydra and posted it all on the Internet. She works for Stark Industries--

Stark Industries.

Started by Howard Stark. The man in the car. The woman was his wife. The child, his son. Tony. I didn’t shoot him. He… was in the car, had hit his head, was still alive. I should have reached in and hit it hard enough to kill, but I just left. He was six. Unconscious. Not my mission. I remember feeling… relief? Relief. I was relieved I… didn’t have to kill him? Yes. I didn’t want to kill him.

I killed Howard Stark. I knew Howard. I remember mentioning it to the doctors. I got in trouble for knowing him. I remember pain. But it was… good pain. And things were better. I went on the mission, but I didn’t recognize Howard then. How could I forget him? My mind is programmed to remember everything relevant. The fast that I knew him was relevant; it gave me background, it gave me a better plan. It was necessary. I may have made a mistake otherwise. How could I forget him?

This concern will have to be dealt with later.

Fury. Pierce. Barton. Hill… Carter. Agent Peggy Carter. I remember her from somewhere. I know memory is inexplicably linked to Rogers, somehow. I know the two go together. She was one of the founders of SHIELD, along with Howard Stark. SHIELD grew out of the SSR, which had been trying to create Super Soldiers during World War II.

I remember. The SSR program created Rogers; that’s where I heard it before. They took a skinny, weak kid and turned him… into… a soldier. I can picture that skinny, weak kid… I’m probably just remembering something I saw at the museum. There’s already been ample evidence of how poor my memory is.

Carter is irrelevant, merely a name I recognized. Sitwell, however, I know. He was Hydra, too. I remember going through briefings and debriefings with him and others. H always tried to act tough and fierce around me, when no one else was around. He was a weak man, not a threat.

Rumlow I remember, also. Rumlow was a threat. Head of SHIELD’s Strike team, worked with Rogers. Worked with me, too, when Hydra needed real skill to back me up. He was good, very good. He was tough in ways Sitwell would never understand. He never needed to act it. He had presence in a room, on a mission. He had an ego. Hated losing to me, made me suffer if he did when we fought. He called it sparring. Sparring never felt like the right word to me. Sparring was too mild. Both of us walked away with real broken bones.

 

May 08 2014 9:39 am

I’m in a house that belongs to a wealthy businessman that I’ve been observing for the past 24 hours. I believe him to be a workaholic and do not expect him home any time soon; nonetheless, I am being careful. The risk is worth it, though. I needed access to his computer, which I have gained despite it being password protected. He had written it on a post-it note and taped it to the underside of his sock drawer. Not very smart of him.

I have decided to forgo my list of questions and find out if any of those I remember from Hydra are still alive are or not. I am writing this now because I believe, much to my surprise, that Rumlow is. If I’m correct, he’s badly wounded but at a hospital in Washington DC. He claims not to remember who he is, and fingerprints have come up empty, but the photographs the hospital took and posted match what I remember of Rumlow.

Do I go back or not?

I have been told to always return back to base after a mission. I should not have come this far to begin with. But I don’t… want to.

Shit. I’m not supposed to have wants or desires. I’m supposed to only do as I’m told. Rumlow’s alive. I need to go back to him. End of discussion. I’m leaving.

 

May 08 2014 9:45 am

I’m going to exit the picture of Rumlow. I’m going to erase my history. I’m going to stand up. I’m going to walk out the door.

 

May 08 2014 9:50 am

Why should I go back to Rumlow? What did he ever do but hurt me?

 

May 08 2014 9:52

Shit. I cannot believe I just wrote that. I’m going completely out of control. I-I can’t-I’m scar- I need to report. I need to report!

   

May 08 2014 9:59 am

I don’t want to report. I really don’t want to report. But I don’t get a choice in this. It’s not up to me. I have my orders to follow. Report back. Always, report back.

 

May 2014

I snuck on a train. I don’t even know where it’s going. I’m in a cargo area of some kind. There are shelves in here, stacked with brown boxes. It all seems very familiar. I’m going to try and sleep.

 

May 2014

I’m still on the train. It hasn’t stopped moving yet, so I’m not getting off yet. I had another nightmare. I must report.

I don’t like Rumlow.

I need Rumlow.

In the nightmare, I was falling. I was in a snowy place. Someone was above me, screaming “Soldier.” I wanted to get back there, help him finish the mission. I knew it was vital. I knew it was necessary. But I kept falling, and I hit the ground. And Rumlow was there. He leaned over me and said he was disappointed in me for leaving him behind in the hospital. Said I needed to be punished. He had a stun stick in his hand. He stabbed me with it, and I screamed, and then I woke up.

I didn’t go back. I didn’t report. I ran away. I deserve to be punished.

His is going to hurt me so bad.

I deserve it.

I have to get off this fucking train.

 

May 11 2014 Noon

I jumped out of the train. I got lucky and only had to walk a few miles to get to the nearest town. The train I was on was heading to Canada. I was in the middle of nowhere in the Northwest. I’d been travelling for two days. A truck driver was passing through, going to Chicago. The name is familiar, and he said I could get a ride from there to wherever I needed to go next. I took him up on the offer. He didn’t stop talking the whole ride long.

We just got to Chicago, parted ways. I’m at a food store right now, with a sandwich and something called coffee. When the cashier asked if I wanted any, I said yes automatically. I remember that I like coffee. It was warm and kept me awake. I haven’t had it… for a very long time, it seems.

I haven’t gained access to the Internet yet, but I will soon enough, one way or another. I need to find out if Rumlow’s still at the hospital. Pierce, Sitwell, they’re both dead. I killed Sitwell myself. I think I remember that; the memory is a bit fuzzy. I don’t know anything about the doctors. I don’t know who else to go to. If Rumlow disappeared, would it mean I didn’t have to go back?

Despite not having an answer to that question, I’m still eager to get back to a computer. But I’m running low on money. The cashier said there’s a mall across the street. I think I’ll spend the afternoon there, and grab some more phones. Since it worked so well the last time.

 

May 12 2014 8:14 am

I’m slipping. I’m not as good as I used to be. Not as focused, not as alert. Maybe I shouldn’t go back to Rumlow; I wouldn’t be of any use to him.

I spent an hour at the mall yesterday. I was expecting it to be as easy as last time, and that was my first mistake. After an hour, the mall’s security had watched a long-haired, brooding, dark-jacketed man walk by too many times and bump into too many people. I hadn’t been paying enough attention to them.

So they approached me, wanted to ask me some questions, search my pockets. I got away from them just fine, of course. But that’s not the point. They don’t have my picture; I was wearing a hat and stayed out of the cameras, of course. But that’s not the point. The point is, they knew I was up to something to begin with. They knew I was trouble. I should have been able to walk by them a thousand times and they shouldn’t have looked twice.

All it took was an hour. I am so sloppy.

I absolutely deserve to be punished.

I deserve everything Rumlow’s going to give me.

 

May 12 2014 2:18 pm

After a change of clothes and a bus ride to a different part of Chicago, I started with the phones again.

Rumlow’s still alive and still at the hospital. He’s not national news; no one at the hospital knows he came out of the SHIELD building. He’s lucky. I imagine if Rogers or Romanov knew he was still alive, he wouldn’t be for long. He looks weak in the pictures, too. I don’t think it would be much of a fight.

I’m not sure if I’m hoping for that or not.

Romanov is still missing. Rogers and his winged friend are still no-shows. Fury is still dead. Pierce is still dead. No meaningful progress against Hydra has been reported. Basically, nothing’s changed.

I’ve stopped trying to answer my list of questions. I don’t know why I thought it was appropriate to ask them in the first place. I don’t know why I ran in the first place, but it was wrong. It was a bad idea. I’m going back now. It’s not my choice. I need to report. I am the asset. They need me. I always report.

 

May 12 2014 Commander Rogers’ Apartment

Steve dipped his hands under the water and splashed it up on his face. He let the water slide down his neck, seeping into his shirt or tracing lines down his back. It felt good, refreshing. He took a deep breath.

Footsteps behind him alerted him to Sam’s presence. He opened his eyes and looked at the other man’s reflection in the mirror.

“Sharon’s here.” Sam told him and Steve nodded, reaching for the towel to dry off his face. Sharon came by every now and then; she was a good friend.

She was in the living room when he walked in, facing a window. She turned when she heard him and smiled; he gave her a small one back, it was the best he could do. She seemed to understand.

“Tough day?” Steve nodded in answer to her question. “Any sign of him?” She continued, and Steve let out a strong breath.

“No.” They’d been looking for some clue to where he’d gone. They’d scoured hospitals, homeless shelters, even mechanics’ workshops. Nothing. Sharon had offered to help them check flights, and they’d started asking around train and bus stations. Nat thought he’d go to Europe and suggested they ask around nearby ports. Fury promised he’d keep an eye out.

“There was a pick-pocket in Pittsburg.” Sharon started, walking toward him. “He stole money and smart phones. Someone in the CIA picked him out of the security footage for practice. He wears a hat, keeps away from them; a real pro.” She pulled a photo out of a manila folder. The man wore lots of layers, kept his hat pulled low, gloves on both hands.

“Could be him.” Steve said with a shrug; could just as easily not be.

“I found the Internet history for all the phones. Several of them had already hit keywords, anyway.” Sharon continued. “The thief searched about the Avengers, SHIELD – fifteen minutes of research on nightmares – and then left them lying around.”

Steve looked up at her, a new light in his eyes. “Someone stole a bunch of smart phones—“

“—to research SHIELD, Avengers, and nightmares.” Sharon finished for him. “Poor man’s computer.”

“That’s worth investigating.” Steve said. He didn’t know how tech-savvy Bucky would be, but why would someone steal smart phones only to leave them lying around a short while later?

Sharon slid the photo back into the folder. “The address of the mall is in here, along with a map marking the locations where the phones were found.” She handed it to Steve. “Good luck. Hope you find him.” She leaned in and pecked him on the cheek before heading for the door.

Steve looked after her for a heartbeat, then set the folder on the table. They weren’t going to leave tonight, anyway. “Sharon.” He called, and she turned. “Can I take you to get some dinner, as a thank you?” Sharon nodded, and smiled, and Steve smiled back. He hadn’t done that in a long time.

 

May 13 2014 3:24 am

I’m on a train heading to Washington DC as I write this. I had another nightmare and can’t sleep, so I may as well record it. This one was stranger than the others.

I was on a train, but the windows were all blacked out. The lights were dimmed. It was a passenger train like the one I’m in now. It was empty. The car was rattling, so I knew we were moving.

I got up from my seat and started searching the rest of the train to see if I could find someone. This was imperative. I found Pierce and Rumlow in a car several in front of mine. They said they had just been talking about me. They said there was a mission I needed to complete for them.

They handed me a gun, and told me to walk into the next car. I did. There was a hole in the wall of the train. I walked to the edge and looked down. It was all black except for what appeared to be a fire burning at the bottom of a very long fall.

Rumlow came up beside me and pressed his lips to my neck just under my ear. He said I was his good soldier. He turned me around and kissed me on the lips, properly. He asked me if I trusted him. I said yes.

He smiled and kissed me again, his tongue in my mouth. It felt so good. He grabbed my hands in one of his. Then he pushed me. I fell backwards, out of the train. Rumlow was laughing and yelling my name as I fell. I remember everything going bright and orange as I hit the fire and I was screaming and Rumlow as yelling.

I woke up then, sweaty and panting. I don’t think anyone noticed and I’m glad. The man with the nightmares would be memorable. I need to stop dreaming. I need to report back. This is bad. They need to know, they need to make it better. The asset does not dream.

 

May 13 2014 9:17 am

I’m in DC. The whole city is still spinning from the events of two weeks ago. Sixteen days, actually. The wreckage from the SHIELD building and Helicarriers is still floating in the river. I’ve just arrived, and that’s all anyone is talking about.

I need to go to the hospital but I find myself stopping to do some last-minute shopping. Clothes for Rumlow. A backpack for all of my belongings – I’ve been keeping them in a bundle in my hands. A notebook to consolidate everything I’ve written. I don’t know if Rumlow will allow me to keep writing, but I intend to try. My memory is still imperfect; I need to write this down.

 

May 13 2014 Night

I went to the hospital, found Rumlow’s room. I made sure to stay out of sight of the cameras and nurses. When I got to his room, Rumlow was unconscious. He looked like he was in bad shape. His face was covered in bandages, his leg was in a cast, there was a tube down his throat to help him breath. Looking at him, I was surprised he was alive at all. I remember watching the SHIELD building fall; I hadn’t thought anyone could survive.

Rumlow was on life support, I realized belatedly. If I had just… turned off the machine…

I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at the broken form of a man I… hated… trying to decide whether or not to pull the plug. Whether or not I could kill him. Whether or not I – the asset, the tool, Hydra’s greatest weapon – could kill… my handler, a loyal member of Hydra, my only link back to the place, the world, I belong to. I belong to Hydra. And I just stood there and thought about killing Rumlow.

I don’t know where these ideas are coming from, but it can’t be good. Killing Rumlow would have been simple, too simple really. And it had a high probability of success with minimal risk to the asset. To me. To the asset. Little risk to the asset. I—

I don’t know anymore.

I didn’t kill Rumlow. But he was in no shape to go anywhere. There was no point in my staying with him. Well, maybe there was, but I could just as easily make a case for my leaving. I never got the chance, though. As I was leaving, a man in a good suit walked in. There were two people behind him, dressed in cheaper suits, but they walked like fighters. Together they were a threat; but not a very big threat.

The man knew who I was, said “they’d” been worried about me. “They” were glad I was finally home. “They” were glad I’d come back to Rumlow. He said he’d take me and Rumlow with him to a Hydra base. I would be safe there; I wouldn’t have to worry about the Americans. I told him the Americans were not a threat to Hydra; he needed to know that since he was clearly higher up. He just smiled and put a hand on my left elbow. He pulled me forward, walked me through the hospital, out into a waiting car. He never took his hand off me. It made me nervous.

We went straight to an airport, a small one, private most likely. A small jet sat on the runway, fuelled, running, and waiting. The man escorted me aboard, sat me down in a chair that was entirely too soft, and put a glass of water in my hand. He left me alone with the two other men. They never took their eyes off me – one was clearly scared of me, the other overly confident – but I let mine roam. The place was the height of luxury, but I didn’t feel very comfortable. It seemed very foreign.

They loaded Rumlow aboard, the man came back, took a seat, and the plane took off. I do not remember being on a plane before. The man was staring at me, so I asked him about it. He said I always travelled in cryogenics. The one time they’d tried to put me on a place, I’d panicked. I don’t remember that.

Everyone quickly went back to ignoring me, except for the two guards. That was familiar, but I didn’t sleep. I stared out the window. We crossed a body of water. There wasn’t a moon.

We landed barely ten minutes ago, at some kind of warehouse. I was removed from everyone else immediately – the asset must be kept separate from outside influence. I remember someone saying that, not to me; I don’t remember who they were.

I was given a small concrete room with a metal door that bolts shut. There is no mirror, no sink; the toilet has two inches of water. The cot is steel welded to the floor. The window had steel bars dividing bulletproof glass. This room is a cage. I wonder if it was built for me.

They didn’t take my backpack. They didn’t search it. I wonder what they think I have in it. I want to keep writing, so as soon as I’m done with this I’m going to hide the paper on me. I’ve ripped extra paper out of the notebook and will stash that, too. I’m going to wear as many layers of clothing as they’ll let me. I’ll put on every piece I’ve got, even the clothes for Rumlow that won’t fit me right.

And then I’m going to sleep. My mind is awake and clear, but my body is exhausted. There is an ache in me as deep as my bones, especially where metal meets skin. I don’t remember feeling this way before. I don’t like it.


	2. Owned

May 14 2014 Pittsburg, Pennsylvania

The cashier shook her head and snapped her gum again before looking back up at Steve. “Nope. Don’t remember him. Are you sure he came in on my shift?”

“Yes.” Steve said, taking the picture she was holding back to him. “Very sure.”

“Well, sorry, Detective. But that was a while ago. We get a lot of people through here in just a day.” She shrugged apologetically. Steve nodded his understanding, thanked her, and left the coffee shop. Sam was waiting for him outside.

“Anything?” He asked and Steve shook his head.

“You?”

“Nothing.” Sam said with feeling. “It’s like this guy doesn’t exist to the rest of the world.”

“I guess that means he’s good.” Steve said wistfully. “You know,” he added after a moment. “I thought the hardest part of this would be talking Bucky around, you know, getting him to remember who he was. But I can’t even start that if we can’t find him.” Sam nodded his agreement.

They stood in silence for a moment, neither sure just what to do next. The silence was broken by the high-pitched trill of Steve’s cell phone. He glanced at the caller ID, and put it on speakerphone. Sam took a step closer.

“Hey Sharon.” Steve said.

“Steve.” Sharon’s voice replied, distorted by the phone. “I’ve got more news. There was another string of robberies in Chicago two days ago.”

“You found that quick.” Sam interrupted.

“The searches from a series of phones pulled up some red flags about Hydra and I was able to link it back to another pickpocket in a mall on the south side of Chicago. Get this, the security there saw what he was doing, called him out on it, and he dropped all five of them in under a minute.”

“Mall security is not exactly world class, Sharon.” Steve remarked. He’d seen a fair about of mall security recently.

“I know.” Sharon said, and there was a hint of laughter in her voice. “But under a minute for five guys takes training. Training your run-of-the-mill pickpocket would not have.”

“What was his search history this time?” Sam asked. “Assuming it’s him.”

“I think it’s safe to say it’s him. All of it is about Hydra personal, most of who used to be in SHIELD.”

“Why would he be looking up that?” Sam frowned at the phone. “Wouldn’t he know all that already?”

“Not necessarily.” Steve responded. “Nat said they most likely kept him in the dark about most things. He might just be trying to figure out who he is.”

“Or who to go back to.” Sharon’s voice echoed out of the phone. Everyone was silent for a moment.

“Then he’s probably going in the wrong direction.” Steve said with feeling.

“And he’s taking his sweet time about it.” Sam added. “That’s almost a week after Pittsburg. What was he doing in between?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen anything else about major pickpockets in malls. Just these two incidents.” Sharon said, then added in a hurry, “Listen guys, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you if I hear anything else.”

“Thanks.” Steve said quickly.

“Mmm-hmm.” Sharon said, then hung up. Steve returned the phone to his pocket.

“It might be worth going if there was a fight. Maybe someone saw something during it that could be of use to us.” Steve offered, looking at Sam.

The other man shrugged. “I still think you’re grasping at straws.”

“What else have we got?” Steve countered and Sam nodded.

“I guess we’re going to the train station.”

 

May 2014 Night

I think the date is the fourteenth, but I can’t be sure. Nor more than 24 hours could have passed since I last wrote, by my judgment, but I am hesitant to trust myself.

I did sleep last night, and I did not dream. I woke when the door opened, and was led out of the room, up a staircase along the wall of the warehouse, to the offices located on the upper level. There were several men there, all dressed in suits, including the one from the plane. They told me to sit, but I didn’t want to and stayed standing. The chair was overstuffed and too deep; I wouldn’t have been able to get out of it quickly. The fact that I did not sit seemed to bother them, but they said nothing.

They asked me what I’d been doing during the fight with SHIELD. I told them I’d been on one of the Helicarriers, after realizing what Rogers was targeting. They asked if I fought him; yes. They wanted to know what he’d said; I lied.

I lied to these people. I don’t know their names, but they are Hydra, and they are powerful. They remind me of Pierce; of a lesser Pierce. And I lied to them. I would never have lied to Pierce. I shouldn’t have lied to them. I don’t remember making a conscious decision to do so. The words just poured out of my mouth.

I told them he tried to convince me Hydra was a waste of my effort and time. It wasn’t worth my blood. He said he didn’t want to kill me and not to make him. I told them the floor gave out while we were fighting and we fall into the river. I told them I didn’t know what happened to him.

After that, I told them I left Washington DC because I could not be caught by the Americans. That was an old rule. I told them I went looking for Hydra in other cities, but couldn’t find anything, so I looked for Hydra in Washington DC to see if anyone had survived, and that was how I found Rumlow. They asked why I’d been staring at him in the hospital; I was waiting for him to regain consciousness. They said they were glad I was back and that the doctors would look at me and put me through my paces.

I spent the rest of the day being tested by the doctors, doing laps, sit-ups, pull-ups, pushups, breaking down weapons, reciting mission strategy and scenarios. They didn’t give me ammunition. They didn’t give me a knife.

The doctors looked scared. I didn’t recognize any of them. The soldiers looked angry. They drove me hard and the doctors worried. They finally fixed my arm. I had cold rations for dinner and I missed the coffee from the food store. That felt familiar, only it was raining in a forest. We were waiting for the enemy. We had radios in backpacks, not earpieces or mics. I wonder how old that memory is. I wonder why we were using such outdated equipment.

That memory has a bad feeling to it, like something bad was about to happen, but I don’t remember what happened next. Did the enemy come? Did we lose? I never lose. I think. Have I ever missed? Did I ever not complete a mission? I don’t remember ever not, but…

I didn’t tell anyone about the nightmares. I didn’t tell anyone about my almost not going back, or almost killing Rumlow. I didn’t tell anyone about my faulty memory. I’ve been meaning to – wanting to – ever since I jumped off the freight train. But now that I’m here, I just… can’t.

There is something very wrong with me.

 

May 16 2014 Chicago, Illinois

“What’s this?” Sam asked blearily, leaning against the doorjamb of one of the two bedrooms in their hotel. Steve looked up from his position at the table in the tiny dinette where he was nursing a cup of coffee.

“Breakfast.” He said with a sweep of his hand to indicate the extra coffee and bagels that he shared the table with. “I got it after my run.”

Sam moaned and crossed the room to collapse into one of the other dinette chairs. “Where you get the energy to get up at five a.m. to go for a run when we’ve had about four hours of sleep in a day and a half, I will never know.” He poured himself coffee and downed half of it in one gulp. Steve smiled, but it was small. Sam didn’t fail to notice.

“What?” He asked.

Steve shrugged, then gestured with his head as if acknowledging an argument only he could hear. “I just wish,” he shrugged again, “that we’d found something.” ‘At the mall,’ Sam filled in. Their trip there had been a complete bust.

Sam set his coffee down with a sigh. “Yeah. I’m not sure what I expected, but this wasn’t it. It’s like we’re chasing ghosts.”

Steve nodded his agreement. There wasn’t much else to be said, so Sam grabbed a bagel and started on breakfast.

“Sharon called earlier.” Steve started and Sam snorted.

“I’m surrounded by earlier birds.” He muttered into his coffee, and Steve almost smiled.

“She thinks Rumlow’s alive.” Steve could see the shift in Sam’s mindset, from relaxed to angry in seconds. In the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the way he held the coffee cup. He agreed.

“How.” The word was short, terse, gave a voice to the anger.

“In a hospital in D.C. The doctors didn’t know he came out of the Triskellion, and no one could recognize him because his face was so badly damaged. But Sharon sent me a picture. It’s him. Sam.” Steve took a breath, and Sam’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “He’s the person Bucky was searching, primarily.”

It took Sam a moment to digest the information – but only a moment. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and his eyes softened. The anger was still there, but it could wait. “Steve, I’m sorry, but you know what this means.”

“No.” Steve shook his head, voice firm. “Sharon said the same thing, but we don’t know that. We don’t know if he worked with Rumlow, or, if he did, how Rumlow treated him. He- he could be out for revenge or something. This doesn’t mean he’s still working for Hydra.”

“We have to consider that possibility, Steve.” Sam insisted. Steve shook his head again, but Sam wasn’t done. “It’s all he knows. Why _wouldn’t_ he go back?”

“You didn’t see him, Sam. The look in his eyes.” Steve turned his head, looked out the window, lost in his own memory. “He knew, Sam. I know he did. We need to help him.”

Sam sighed, closed his eyes, felt his brow furrow in a frown. “I don’t want to see you get hurt, Steve. This guy, he’s dangerous. Don’t forget that.”

There was another long silence as Sam finished breakfast and Steve stared out the window.

“Regardless of what Bucky may or may not be doing – because this could just be some lost Hydra agent trying to get back home, you know – when do we get to kick Rumlow’s ass?” Sam finally asked, and he could see Steve’s face shift from sad to grim.

“Sharon booked us a flight this afternoon.”

 

May 2014 Night

I’ve lost track of time. I’ve been at this warehouse for a long time, though. Weeks, most likely. Hydra is working me hard, doing exercises and tests. The exercises are easy, just physical workouts or mental scenarios. It’s the tests that are difficult. I remember some of them; I know there are correct and incorrect answers. But I don’t remember all the answers. I know I’m giving wrong ones.

The problem is, they ask what I’m feeling, what I’m thinking, how I’m sleeping. They ask about every second I spent away from Hydra and I’m not sure my lies can stand up to such scrutiny. There are correct and incorrect answers, but the correct answers are not always what the truth. I cannot tell them about my running away, or pain. Lots of pain. I should tell them about the nightmares – because they can make them go away – but I don’t want to.

It’s… frustrating. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to _feel._ I don’t even know _how_ to feel. They never taught me how. I don’t know what I’m doing. I really don’t.

They ask about Rogers, too. A lot. Like he’s supposed to mean something to me. But I don’t know him. I don’t. I swear I don’t. Why do they keep asking about him? I find it strange that both Rogers and Hydra think that I should remember him. If… if my enemy and my masters are telling me the same thing…

Does that mean it’s the truth?

 

May 2014 Night

I’m scared. I think. What does scared feel like? I don’t really know. Is it that feeling, in your stomach, that tingle in your spine, than makes you not want to walk forward? Is it that hesitation I get every time I lie? Is that fear? It gets in the way. I don’t remember being scared before—

Yes I do. I’ve been scared before. This is worth writing. They laid me out on a table yesterday, metal, cold. I was only half-dressed – they wanted to do a physical examination – and they strapped me down with these long pieces of synthetic material that went from my right to my left. They went over my chest and arms, my waist and wrists, my thighs, and shins. They strapped them so tight I couldn’t move.

I panicked. It was like I remembered that, and I knew bad things were about to happen. I started spouting random numbers. They were five, five, seven, zero… three? There are more there, I’m forgetting some **not again!** I hate this memory problem! Five five seven zero… three… eight. Three? No, that’s not right. There was more, though. Five five seven zero three eight… barns? Five hundred thousand… barns?

This is pointless! This is gibberish! This isn’t event he point; the point was, I panicked when they strapped me to the table. Clearly started talking nonsense. I fought them hard to get out of the restraints; I think I broke something before they managed to get me back under control. They gave up on the examination after that and forcibly walked me back to my cell. They had guys hanging on every limb. But I was fine after they undid the restraints. I was even better when I got off the table. I don’t know why, but that really scared me.

That’s fear. Yes. That… that feeling… that panic. That’s fear. Right? I think so. It does get in the way. I ruined their examination.

 

May 2014 Night

Three two five five seven zero three eight.

I hope they never try to strap me to the table again.

 

May 2014 Morning? Day

I don’t know what direction the window faces so I can’t be sure where in the sky the sun is. But somehow, it feels like morning. It’s been a while since I’ve written. Nothing else has really happened. I think they might be afraid of me; they’re keeping me locked up away in this cell. They gave me a uniform finally, though. My real uniform, not this pile of clothing I’ve been wearing.

I gathered all my papers together and have hidden them in my uniform. I watched them search through the pile of old clothing they gave my through the grill in the door. I’m glad I kept my notes. I don’t want to forget.

They gave me my complete uniform, which means a face mask. I… don’t really get the point of the mask – muzzle? I mean, what is it, really? I don’t know.

All of Hydra seems to have an obsession with masks; nearly every soldier wears one. I remember full-face leather with goggles for the eyes, but I don’t know where I saw that. It seems silly to me.

Is it supposed to be scarier? Do they think a faceless murderer in the night is more terrifying a monster than something with a human face? Is it for the victims, or is it to the soldiers’ benefit, to have a mask? Is it just to hide their faces from any sort of recognition?

Does having a mask make them scarier, because they are this faceless monster that is completely foreign and un-relatable? That begs the question, though, is a killer _with_ a face any more relatable? I think—

No. I don’t think. I am the asset; this is not my concern. They gave me a mask. All I need to do is wear it when they tell me, and my job is done. They… it is not my job – assignment – it is not my assignment to _think_ and _question_. Someone thinks I should wear it. That is enough. I will wear it.

 

May 2014 ~~Morning~~ Day Whatever

I don’t want to wear it, though. I don’t like the way it goes on. The way I can’t talk, and have difficulty breathing. I… I don’t like it.

I don’t _want_ to. I’m not going to. If I can’t breathe, I can’t do my job.

 

May 2014 Day

That’s weak and I know it. I’m wearing it.

 

May 2014 Day

No. I’m not wearing it. I don’t think there’s a point. I can keep myself from getting recognized. They’d do better to simply cut my hair. I don’t want to, I’m not going to.

 

May 2014 ~~Day~~ You know what? Fuck it, it’s morning.

I’ve been here before. With Rumlow. In the rich workaholic’s house. With the password written on a post-it note. I know how that turned out. Is that how this will turn out? Because I don’t want it to. I really don’t want to wear it. It’s not because I think it’s unnecessary – which it is (but isn’t for me to decide) – it’s not because I can’t breathe – because that’s complaining and weakness and I know it. I don’t want to wear the _muzzle_ because I don’t like the way I feel when I put it on. I don’t like not being able to talk. I don’t know why that bothers me – it’s not my job to talk.

I just… I don’t like it.

And I don’t want to wear it.

Is… is that a desire? Is… is it?

Are ‘want’ and ‘desire’ synonymous? I… I think they are.

 

May 2014 Afternoon

I now know which way my window faces. I spent all day just watching. I’m wearing the muzzle.

I really need to tell them about this. The asset… God, the asset can’t have desires. That was… that was rule number one. Or up there, at the very least. This is… this is bad. I’ve been doing this for… weeks. It’s gotten out of control. Coming back to Hydra was supposed to make it better, but they can’t help if I don’t tell them, right? So I need to tell them.

But I know I’m not going to. I’ll open my mouth when they ask, I’ll hesitate with fear, and then I’ll lie. No sir, nothing is wrong. Yes sir, everything is fine.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

 

May 2014 Night

I’m back on a plane, going back to the United States. With Rumlow. Remarkably, he’s back on his feet already. Even if I’d been at the warehouse for a month, that is still a very quick healing period. Well, for him. Not for me. I heal quickly.

In any case, Rumlow is flying back with me. He is now my handler. Pierce used to be my handler. I don’t think Rumlow will be able to live up to him. There was something I felt for Pierce that I don’t feel for Rumlow.

Rumlow’s got thick scars across his face and the rest of his body. He wears a suit like mine: black synthetic material and leather straps holding a wide array of weapons. He has a mask now, though it is full face. It’s white with black strips crossing it. I still don’t understand Hydra’s obsession with masks. But I’m not thinking about that.

I’m still wearing the muzzle.

We were briefed before we left. Rumlow was in the room by the time I was called. He looked like he’d been there a while, and there was something in his eyes I… didn’t like. The briefing told me my mission: I’m going after the Avengers. I am leading, the mission is assassination. Rumlow is my backup should I require, and also my handler. But I get to plan the missions. _My_ missions.

This is my favorite type of work. It allows me the physical movement of going out into the world – the field – going out into the field and executing a plan, but also the mental exercise of planning the best way to execute the mission. The Avengers are each in their own way powerful, and I look forward to dealing them.

I believe Rumlow feels the same way; in fact, all of Hydra looks forward to this mission. Rogers is widely seen by Hydra as the source of all ills, both during World War II and now. They look forward to his death. The suits said so.

I look forward to the challenge. Something to finally clear my mind and focus my attention. This is what I need most right now, a mission to remind me what I am. I do look forward to it, the challenges it will present and the skills it will require. I like the finely tuned motions of shooting someone with a sniper rifle, or the precision and dexterity of a knife fight against a worthy opponent, or the brute strength and endurance required in simple hand-to-hand combat. These things are simple, these things I can do, there is no gray area.

The simplicity feels good, sits well on my mind.

I look forward to this mission.

 

May 21 2014 10:52 pm

I estimate we’ve been in America for just over 24 hours. I have not yet slept and it is finally beginning to show.

After our arrival, Rumlow took me straight to a safe house that had been specifically assembled for our use during this mission. It is equipped with two high-speed computers capable of using other people’s satellites to access the Internet, or, something to that effect. Basically, whatever it does makes them untraceable. Like ghosts. Rumlow insisted I get to work on studying the Avengers right away, so I had no time to rest after getting off the plane. I did sleep for a bit on the plane, but it was an uneasy sleep.

The information I have found on the Avengers has been lengthy and informative. What I had on them before was good background, a firm base from which I could start, but what I have now will allow me to deal with each of them effectively.

Tony Stark is the easiest to find, but his security is also the most advanced. I have tabled him for the moment due to that knowledge.

Steven Rogers’ location is still unknown, but I am constructing a plan on how I will find him. He is convinced he knows me, said he was “with me to the end of the line.” If I appear, he will come. But that can wait.

Bruce Banner’s location is also unknown, but I fear the Hulk’s destructive capabilities. There are at least three ways I could gain access to him; two most obvious being tracking him down myself or using some government to do it for me. The third option is to kidnap the woman I believe to be his girlfriend, and bring him to me, though I run the very high risk that I will get the Hulk and not Banner.

The being Thor I believe to be… not on earth. I’m not sure I’m used to that idea, yet, but it does appear to be true. I have picked out the woman I believe to be his girlfriend and will monitor her for any sign of Thor. Her name is Jane Foster; she is a doctor in astrophysics. She worked for SHIELD. She currently resides in London, which is unfortunate as travel will be a problem.

The final two Avengers are Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton, both agents of SHIELD. My research has led me to believe they are holed up together, but I haven’t found where. While I have no doubt these two are lethal, they think the way I think, and this makes them much easier to defeat. More than that, they are simply human; no armor, enhancements, accidents, or mythology to make them harder to kill.

Right now, my order of assassination is as follows

            Banner

            Romanov/Barton

            Stark

            Rogers

            I will eliminate Thor when he comes to earth.

The list is under advisement and will change as the targets become more or less accessible. But it’s what I’ve got right now and I need to sleep.

 

May 22 2014 10:17 pm

I found Banner. A Canadian park ranger claimed he saw a giant green monster racing through the forest a week ago. A little satellite hacking and 45 minutes later I tracked Banner to an abandoned house in the middle-of-nowhere, Canada. The forest is too thick for me to easily shoot him from afar, and I believe the cabin has no windows. I will have to go up close and shoot him from behind. Not exactly difficult, simply not my preferred style. Rumlow and I are leaving for Canada tomorrow morning.

I believe I have also found Romanov and Barton. The computer facial recognition software I have been running got a hit on a blond-haired woman last week in San Francisco. I’m still tracking their course, but I believe I do have them. Right on time. I have confirmed my theory that they are travelling together. I wonder if they feel stronger as a pair. I have always worked largely solo.

 

May 24 2014 9:22 pm

Banner’s dead. My right arm’s broken. I’ve pinned down Romanov and Barton. Rumlow says we’re leaving in ten minutes.

 

May 25 2014 Commander Rogers’ Apartment

He’d been trying not to. He really had. Despite what everyone thought, Steve did understand that Bucky was not himself. That it was unlikely the Bucky Steve knew would ever come back. And Steve could find a way to live with that. He would embrace whoever Bucky wanted to be.

So he’d been trying not to go back through the old photos. He’d been trying not to compare the man he knew now to the best friend he’d once had. But they were right there. And nothing was going right. They couldn’t find Bucky. They’d missed Rumlow. And Sharon said they needed to stay in town, Fury’s orders. As if Fury could still give orders.

Steve opened the box.

The first picture was of Peggy, and it made Steve smile because she looked so happy. There were more pictures after that: Col. Phillips, Dr. Erskine, Howard, his team. At the very bottom of the pile, where Steve had last left them, were the pictures of Bucky.

He was smiling in most of them, his customary grin lighting up his face. His hair was short, though not necessarily neat. Steve could remember the life in his eyes that the camera couldn’t quite catch.

He looked so different now.

Not older, not really. Just, emptier. Cold. Somehow more not-Bucky.

Steve’s cell phone went off and he tore his eyes away to look at it. A text from Sharon, to meet on the National Mall. Steve sighed, then packed up the pictures, grabbed his coat, and left.

They were waiting for him when he got there. Sam and Sharon, even Fury and Maria Hill were there.

“I thought you were working for Stark now?” Steve said as he shook her hand.

“I have a couple days off.” She responded.

“We can do the meet-and-greet later.” Fury interrupted. “There’s some news you need to hear now.”

Steve looked around at the others, but they looked as confused as he was.

“You hear about the Canadian cabin that burned down two days ago?” Fury asked.

“Yeah, it almost started a forest fire.” Sharon responded immediately, because of course she would know. Steve vaguely recalled hearing about it on the news.

“They found a body but it was unidentifiable.” Sharon continued. Fury nodded.

“The officials don’t know who it is, but Romanov called me saying she did.” Steve looked as Fury paused, trying to figure the significance of Natasha knowing.

“It was Dr. Banner.”

Steve heard Fury’s words, but somehow his brain didn’t comprehend them. Banner. Bruce Banner. His friend. The Hulk.

“No.” He said, shaking his head. “No, you can’t kill Bruce.”

“Apparently someone found out how.” Fury responded, and Steve shook his head again. His stomach was twisting into tight knots and Steve remembered this feeling. Knew it well.

There was a hand on his shoulder, Sam was saying something, but Steve wasn’t… thinking properly. There were more hands, pushing him backward, sitting him down, and Steve let them guide him because Bruce was dead.

They hadn’t been very close. Bruce had always been closer to Tony. But whenever he’d needed a break from Tony’s pell-mell pace, he’d come find Steve. They’d share a cup of tea – Bruce never drank coffee – and just talk. It was grounding, calming, almost therapeutic.

And it was gone. Everything was gone. Everyone was just _gone._

Steve looked up at Fury, his mind slowly coming back from the shock. It never seemed to get any easier.

“You think he did it, don’t you?” Steve took a breath. “Bucky.”

“I’d be hard pressed to find someone else capable of taking down the Hulk.” Fury said, but Steve shook his head.

“You don’t have proof.”

“Yes I do.” Fury said. Steve pushed himself to his feet. “Today, Romanov reported that she and Barton were attacked. Barton’s in a hospital, in a coma. They don’t know if he’ll wake up. Romanov made a positive Id on the attacker.” Fury paused, looking Steve in the eye. Steve didn’t look away. “It was the Winter Soldier.”

“He sure gets around.” Hill remarked, and Steve’s stomach twisted because he and Sam had said the same thing once.

“Rogers, Barnes is dead. And we have to stop the Winter Soldier.” Fury said carefully, with emphasis on the code name.

“I know Bucky’s in there; at least enough of him to get out from under Hydra.” Steve said, and there was a fine line of anger in his voice. “And I’m going to help him.”

Fury didn’t say anything, merely frowned at him, so Steve turned and walked away. He’d made his point, whether Fury liked it or not. He was losing everyone, couldn’t Fury see that? And now he had this chance, singular and real and _clear,_ to help someone. This chance to make someone better, at least, if not okay. Steve needed this. He needed this more than he needed air.

 

May 26 2014 Night

I don’t know the time; I’m not going to find out. I’d have to start up one of the computers and I don’t want to move right now. I’m beyond exhausted and everything hurts. I’m supposed to be able to suppress pain, but I must be too broken for it to be working right now.

Banner knew hand-to-hand combat. He knew what he was doing, too. He was far from my level, but was good enough to surprise me. I wasn’t expecting it and he was able to grab my right hand – with the gun – and break it before I got my left around his throat. I strangled him. I checked for a pulse. He had none.

I burnt the cabin down to ashes. It was all pine wood and there hadn’t been rain for at least a week. No one will be able to ID the body, if they find one at all. Banner wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place; they won’t be looking for him.

Barton and Romanov did not go as well at all.

They’d split up by the time Rumlow and I arrived at their location. I’d taken up a post across the street from Barton’s hotel room. I was going to shoot him from a distance – the safest plan with my broken arm. It was a trap. I walked into like a mouse to cheese.

Barton walked out of his hotel room in front of me and I was prepared to take the shot. Romanov attacked me from behind. It sent my shot wild; I only clipped Barton’s shoulder. Practically a scratch.

Romanov and I fought on the roof, a draw with my handicap, and Barton came to join. He had a bow – his primary weapon – and tried to shoot me from afar. It was not successful. I was able to momentarily dispatch Romanov – I threw her to a different roof with my left arm – and went after Barton. He had taken an elevated position on the roof, but there was enough cover for me to get to him without getting shot. There was a brief struggle, we were on the edge, and we fell off the roof. Or, rather, he fell, and hung on to me. Not that Rumlow cared for the distinction.

He was not moving after we hit the ground, but Romanov had found a gun and was shooting from the roof. I was too damaged to continue and had to leave in a hurry.

How did they know? How did I not see?

If they were smart and aware that their lives may have been in danger – as at least the Widow would be – they would be monitoring news of the other Avengers. They were likely just as aware as I was that Banner was in Canada. It took several days for Rumlow and I to get from Canada to their location, and I know the burning would have been in the news.

If they were smart, they would have split up then, Barton as the cheese, Romanov as the trap. I played a very convincing mouse. It was because I wasn’t looking for it. I got cocky, overexcited for this mission. I’m not taking the due time to work out all the kinks. I’m doing this wrong.

I should not have gone after them so quickly. I should have waited let my arm heal first – a matter of days – and therefore would have seen the trap. I am an idiot for not knowing of Banner’s experience with hand-to-hand combat in the first place.

They should recall me. The asset is damaged, possibly to the point of no repair if I am making mistakes like this.

 

May 27 2014 9:32 pm

I spent the day researching Tony Stark’s security and I believe I have found a hole that will allow me access to his private laboratory in Stark Tower, New York City. Conveniently, that is where he currently resides. Rumlow has said nothing of recalling me. This alone is troubling. The last failure I can remember led to severe punishment and then the pain-that-means-good-things.

I can remember an image with that feeling. A chair. I was strapped down. The white-coated scientists kept their distance. There were guards. The room was… filled with… drawers of some kind. I remember bars. Lots of pain. But it made things better – me better.

I am broken now. I need to be fixed. I wonder why they don’t just… fix me. Surely they know I am broken. My failure is enough to prove that. But Rumlow has said nothing about it. What’s going on?

But I have work to do. I’ll deal with this later. I haven’t told Rumlow about my information on Stark yet; I want to do more research before we leave.

I want to be ready this time. No surprises.


	3. Free

May 29 2014 Brooklyn, New York City, New York

I’ve been making choices. I’ve been making my own choices for a long time, now. So why does this feel so novel, still? What clothes I wore, what food I ate, where to go, the whole pickpocketing thing, that was all me. I haven’t even been listening to Hydra all that much recently. I mean, all the things I’m not telling them.

So why does this feel so impossible?

I suppose I’ve already made my first big step. Congratulations, you haven’t killed anyone today. Last night – this morning – whatever! I need a watch. I seem otherwise incapable of knowing what time it is.

I turn left at the intersection, not really paying attention to where I’m going.

I should make more choices. Because why not? Because I can. That sounds good. I think. What does good feel like? How do I quantify it?

I turn right down the alley.

Does it make you want to smile? Does it make everything seem less… bad? Because I like the feeling of things not seeming so bad.

I push the door open and climb the stairs.

Okay, so making choices makes me feel good. I can make choices. I’m going to buy a watch. I’m going to buy new clothes. I’m going to get more coffee. I like coffee. It tastes… bitter and warm, and I always feel cold.

Third door on the left. I grab the door handle and push, but nothing happens. That’s when I look up and realize I have no clue where the fuck I am. Some kind of ancient-looking wooden building. It looks like it’s about ready to fall over.

I step back from the door. The number, in pealing black letters, is 2C. The paint on the hallway walls is fading and peeling. The light fixtures are old and falling apart; it’s probably a minor miracle they work at all.

I slowly walk away, back down the stairs, out the door. This whole building, it feels familiar. Friendly. 2C was mine at one point. I lived here, once. I smiled here, laughed here. I don’t’ remember ever doing it specifically, but I know it happened.

But not anymore. I don’t have any place, anymore.

 

May 29 2014 Lower East Side, New York City, New York

I crossed the East River, according to the sign at the water. After that I bought a watch.

Okay, I stole it. But I have one now.

I got some knew clothes. I threw my uniform into the river. It was good to see the muzzle go.

I’m just walking now, and everything feels so bright and shiny and new. It’s like, for the first time I can remember, I can actually see the world. And yes, it’s terrifying.

I’m terrified someone will recognize me. I’m watching the policeman on the corner and the soldier on t bench. I’m terrified Hydra will swoop down out of the sky and drag me back, take away my watch, put on the muzzle, strap me to a table, punish me, because oh do I deserve it.

But I just walked by a coffee shop and it smelled so good. And there’s this little girl laughing and talking to her mother faster than I can understand her. And the sun’s out. And I’m wearing enough layers that I don’t feel quite so cold anymore.

So yes, Hydra will catch me. And yes, they will punish me. And yes, I deserve it. But I think this might be worth it.

So I’m going to buy coffee. And I’m going to buy breakfast, because it’s only 8:30 am. And I’m going to enjoy it. And Rumlow will catch me by this afternoon, but that’s okay.

 

May 29 2014 Commander Rogers’ Apartment

“Honestly, Cap. You are about the last person I expected to call me when the story broke.” Stark’s voice was tinny over the cell phone, but his usual attitude still managed to show.

“Are you alright?” Steve asked, because he needed to hear it from Tony’s mouth. He knew what the news was saying, but Tony needed to say it himself.

“I’m _fine_ , Cap. Wow. You’re really getting soft in your old age.” And part of Steve wanted to grit his teeth and scream at Tony because didn’t he understand how serious this was? Bucky could have killed him.

No, not Bucky, Steve forced himself to think. The Winter Soldier.

“I’m sorry.” He forced out next. What else could he say? This was getting way out of control. Maybe they were right. Maybe Steve should have just ended it all on the Helicarrier. He could have, if he tried. If he’d been willing.

“Okay. That must have been really hard to say, but tell my why so I can gloat.” Tony answered, and there was genuine confusion among the sarcasm.

So Steve told him. Told him the Winter Soldier was Bucky. Told him how Bucky had fallen, how everyone had thought he’d died. Told him how this was all his fault, how he kept screwing up and this kept going on and on and now his friend were being picked off one by one by the man who had used to be his best friend—

“Wow. That’s a really-“ Tony paused, sucked in a breath. “-really shitty experience. But, Cap. None of this is really your fault.”

“Tony-“

“No. Steve. It’s really not. All you military guys must get ‘How to be a Good Friend’ training or something, because when I was in the middle of nowhere in Afghanistan, Rhodey wouldn’t stop looking for me.” Tony paused again. “Shit happens, Steve. That’s the story of 1944; that, and there are some really fuckin’ terrible people out there. But now? When your friend’s probably still in there somewhere and you refuse to kill him? That’s you just being you.

“And I agree. The only reason that guy didn’t kill me is because your friend’s still in there. You could see him at war with himself.”

Steve took a deep breath. “I’m glad you’re alright, Tony.”

“Yeah, me too, Cap. Where would you be without me? Oh yeah, wallowing in depression and self-blame.” Steve laughed despite himself.

“Right. It was all you, Stark.”

“You got that right.” Tony paused, the spoke quickly. “I got to go; Pepper’s on the line. Hey, Steve. Hope you find your friend.” And then he was gone. Steve moved slowly, turning his phone off and setting it on the table.

It felt good to have support, even if it only came from the most unexpected of places.

 

May 29 2014 Central Park, New York City, New York

It’s after sunset and Rumlow still hasn’t found me. And I don’t understand. I don’t understand why he hasn’t dragged me back to the safe house. He was so controlling when we were there. But he didn’t punish me for failure. Looking back, though, I think he probably wanted to.

Is this a test? A test of my loyalty? If so, the right answer would be to go back. I should have gone back hours ago. But, I’ve never taken a test like this before. Hydra gives lots of tests, but not like this.

So what am I supposed to do? I don’t know what they want from me. I don’t know, I’m sorry, I don’t know-

There are footsteps behind me, so I turn. I’m in some kind of part, the nearest streetlight 200 feet away. Maybe it’s Rumlow.

A man comes around the corner, a man with a knife in his hand, but not Rumlow. I turn my back and start walking again.

“Hey!” The man yells, and his footsteps bring him closer. “Stop!”

“Don’t touch me.” I tell him over my shoulder, but I don’t stop.

“I told you to stop.” The man lowers his voice in a way this is clearly meant to be threatening. Rumlow did that, sometimes. Pierce never did.

The man’s footsteps quicken, and I can feel when he gets close to me with the knife. Threat assessment; no combat skill worth note, only real threat is the weapon. He’s an idiot with a knife, basically.

I stop walking abruptly and spin all in one motion, wrapping my right hand around his wrist, digging my fingers into the cartilage to make him drop the knife. I move around him, twisting his are behind his back and forcing him to his knees. I pick up the knife from the ground and my hand’s at his throat before I realize it.

But I stop. He’s only an idiot with a knife. And now he doesn’t even have a knife. I could kill him, Hydra would approve. It’s what my training says to do. He’s whimpering pathetically, showing entirely too much weakness, but I don’t think that’s why I stopped.

There’s this tiny voice in the back of my head saying “Steve wouldn’t approve.” Steve. Steve Rogers. Who is tall. Who is short. Who gets into fights he can’t win because it’s “right.” What the hell does “right” mean?

“I’m not going to kill you.” I tell the man on the ground, and he starts babbling thank-yous in relief. “But if you ever do this again,” I continue, “I will hunt you down and snap your neck.” And it will be a lot simpler, I think but I don’t say. It will be a lot simpler than trying to decide if I should spare you because of an emotion.

 

May 30 2014 Central Park, New York City, New York

I spent the night on a park bench. When I woke up my back hurt and my limbs were stiff and cold. My body still aches and it’s been a few hours already. This feels like the times I wake up with Hydra and all the scientists are there, checking my vitals and my senses and asking questions. I’m always freezing when I wake up, and I ache for days.

I think when I sleep, they call it being “on ice.” I keep hearing that term in relation to my waking with pain, but I don’t know why they call it that. I have a vague memory of a very cold box, but I don’t know why they’d want me to sleep there.

But there was no box this time, just a park bench in spring-time New York City. It’s a cold spring. I think. I feel like it is, but I don’t know.

But none of this is the point. It’s been more than 24 hours since I ran away – went rogue, I think it’s called – and Rumlow has not come to collect me yet. It’s terrifying, and I don’t even know why. I’m not sure which scares me more. And I hate being scared, but I can’t seem to stop. I feel… terrified and confused… and _lost…_ and sick to my stomach. I’ve felt this way before, on the Helicarrier. Fighting Steve Rogers.

Steve Rogers, whose opinion now dictates if I kill someone or not. It’s the first time I’ve thought of him as anything but a target in a long time. It makes me think about what I read in the museum a month ago – a month? only a month? – about James Buchanan Barnes.

Wait. Barnes.

Those numbers from the metal table – three two five five seven zero three eight – could be a serial number for a military. And Barnes came after it, only spelled with an e. As in a name, not a building. Three two five five seven zero three eight… Barnes… James Buchanan… Sergeant?-

I remember James Buchanan Barnes’ serial number. That’s got to be it. Name, rank, and serial number. That’s what all the Americans said, and Barnes would be American military. But his serial number wasn’t at the museum. Even if it was, and this is just another memory hole, why would I say it when I panic?

Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes’ nickname was Bucky. Steve called me Bucky on the Helicarrier, and I know Barnes’ serial number.

How-? What-? He can’t be right?

Steve can’t be right about me.

That would mean… I don’t even know what that would mean.

 

May 30 2014 Central Park, New York City, New York

It would mean that I’m ancient. It would mean that I’ve forgotten my entire life. It would mean I am not _just_ the asset. That alone opens up a whole world of… I don’t even know what, but it can’t be a small thing.

 

May 30 2014 Midtown East, New York City, New York

I walk into the café and the bitter smell of coffee combined with the thick smell of fresh-baked bread makes my stomach rumble. I can’t, off the top of my head, the last time I ate. I’m too tired to put any real effort into coming up with a date.

The cashier is nice, has a sympathetic smile. She doesn’t laugh or sigh as if irritated when I fumble with the money. I can kill a man a dozen different ways with my bare hands, a hundred with a knife, a thousand with assorted weaponry, and I can’t handle dollars and coins without dropping them. It’s frustrating.

The meal is good, and the café is mostly empty. It was easy to pick a seat with a view of both doors and the exit to the kitchen, and that makes me feel a little better. Whatever happens, I will see it coming.

The coffee is good. Hot. Instantly and comfortingly familiar.

  

May 30 2014 Midtown East, New York City, New York

I leave the restaurant long after I finish my meal, not until the lunchtime rush comes in. I’m so confused. This running-away-for-a-day was so much simpler – so less intimidating – when I believed I’d have something to go back to. Rumlow would come and find me, and I’d be punished. I think a part of me was hoping for the pain-that-is-good, because it would deal with all of my defaults simultaneously.

But Rumlow… never came. And the idea that I might be someone complicates things even more. Someones have lives. Someones are not assets or weapons. They get to have feelings and opinions and make all their own choices.

I… I cannot be on the same level as them. I just can’t be; it doesn’t work like that. I am not a person; I’m not anything. I’m the asset only, always.

But I was Bucky Barnes.

But what does it mean to be Bucky Barnes? I know what he did, but I don’t know who he was.

 

May 30 2014 Midtown East, New York City, New York

I think if I asked, Steve would help me. He’d help me figure out what I’m supposed to do. If he’s the person I think I remember, he won’t punish me for asking questions or not knowing.

 

May 30 2014 Midtown East, New York City, New York

What if he’s not the person I remember? What if he does punish me? What if he’d punish me for wrong answers, too? I don’t know what the right answers are.

I—I can’t breathe. I—I can’t—

I’m panicking again. I need to stop. I need to calm down. I need—I need to be able to think—

People are starting to stare. What if they try to talk to me—what if they try to—what if they—

I’m going to go down the alley. I’m going to hide in the alley. There’s no one in the alley I’ll be safe in the alley. I’m just going to… sit down… behind the dumpster. No one knows I’m here. I’m safe from all threats. I can just… breathe. I can stop thinking for a moment. No threats. Stand down. Breathe.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

 

May 30 2014 Midtown East, New York City, New York

I’m still sitting behind the dumpster. I can’t make myself get up. It smells back here, but…

Part of me wonders if I could hide here forever. The dumpster doesn’t ask any questions or demand anything of me. It’s nice that way.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how to make these decisions myself – I don’t even know if I’m allowed to.

Can I—would it be allowed—

Can I just pick one? Yes, you are Bucky Barnes and belong with Steve; or, no, you are the asset and must go back to Hydra.

When I think about it like that, it doesn’t seem to be much of a choice.

I don’t know a thing about Steve, not any more. At least Hydra would be predictable. And Hydra might come after me, and then I’d be putting people in danger and I can’t but Steve in danger. But I could deal with that; I’m capable of dealing with Hydra’s best. And…

I don’t like Rumlow. _Maybe_ I would have gone back for Pierce – I probably would have – but I don’t like Rumlow. I don’t want to have to—

I’m back to this again! The asset doesn’t have desires! The asset doesn’t have wants. The asset does as he’s fucking told! The asset always reports.

 

May 30 2014 Midtown East, New York City, New York

But I’m not _just_ the asset anymore. Part of me is Bucky Barnes; always has been. So I get to choose which part I want to be, right? If I want to be the asset, and go back to Rumlow, and follow every order, kill on their every whim. Or I can be Bucky Barnes, the man who worked for Steve Rogers, and had a much better life than the asset.

The man who’s been roaming around New York for the past few days.

I force myself to stand up from behind the dumpster. It was nice while it was there, but I don’t need it anymore.

I walk out of the alley and back onto the street like nothing ever happened. The city has gotten dark as the sun goes down below the buildings, and but the streets are still crowded. I work my way through the crowd, and when I see someone who looks wealthy or like a tourist, I steal their wallet. I pull the cash out and toss the wallets into garbage pails. I’m getting really good at this pickpocketing thing.

I keep track of the amount of cash I’m collecting as I go, and when I get over $500, I stop. It should be enough to pay for any meals I’ll be having for the next couple of days, and for one train ticket to Washington D.C.

 

June 1 2014 Washington D.C.

I walk through the exhibit quickly. I still remember all of these facts – information I guess is relevant to me, now.

I stop at the screen that has the footage of Captain America and Sgt. Barnes running. They’re standing side-by-side. He – Steve – is laughing at something Barnes – Bucky – me – said. I’m laughing, clearly happy. I wonder if I was often happy, or if this was rare. For me, now, happy is… I can’t remember ever being that happy. I feel… content, when I have a cup of coffee. I felt… calm, actually, when I ran away from Hydra, but that felt stretched thin, like a wire under stress. And then the rules changed and I was simply confused. And scared.

This exhibit is actually really dark, walls painted with dark colors, only words and pictures dramatically lit. It feels wrong, somehow, to shade everything in shadow. Steve paints such a vibrant picture, in my mind. I don’t know where that picture comes from, but I like it. It feels good to think about.

And yet, I’m stalling going back to him. The Rogers from today, from the Helicarrier, somehow is not included in that bright picture. Rationally, I know they are the same person; the small one, the one in the picture who’s smiling, and the one from the Helicarrier. But I’m scared to go to the one from the Helicarrier. I don’t know why. I don’t know if I’d feel any different if I could go to the one in the picture.

Emotions are frustrating; so many fucking uncertainties.

I leave the exhibit and no one gives me a second glance. I go to the address I remember for Rogers. I don’t remember where I first got it, but it is correct. The curtains are open and there’s a motorcycle parked on the driveway; a car parked on the street in front of his building. I can see him and someone else having a heated argument. Rogers turns away from the person and they step closer, into my line of sight. It’s the other man from the Helicarrier, the winged one. I remember fighting him. I threw him off the Helicarrier. He could have died. He is clearly a friend of Steve’s. I’m glad he didn’t die.

Steve turns and the man pats his shoulder. Steve looks distraught. The fingers of my right hand twitch and I don’t know why. I don’t have a nervous tick. If I ever did, it was worked out of me long ago. I huff unhappily and turn away, walking down the street. I need a better vantage point; one a little less obvious than across the street.

There’s an office building, across an alleyway from Rogers’ apartment, that looks promising. I don’t want to go through the lobby, so I walk around the building once. It’s got a big perimeter. There’s a fire escape on a wall in another alley with no windows watching it. I decide that’s my best option and climb up. It isn’t until half way up that I realize I’m avoiding all the noisiest spots.

I stand on the cold metal, frozen in place, as I try to remember how I knew where they all were. Because I do remember; this isn’t luck. But I don’t remember when I’ve been here before. It must have been somewhat recent; this building isn’t that old. But the worst of my memory problems manifest about older memories. Bucky’s memories are the absolute most difficult, though other Winter Soldier ones are forgotten as well. The oldest ones.

I force myself to move forward again, one foot in front of the other, even though I have a growing sense of unease. It does not abate when I reach the roof having successfully avoided every groan, squeak, and clang.

I go straight to the side of the roof facing Rogers’ apartment and watch. I can see a little bit, a profile of Steve’s friend through a kitchen window, and later Steve’s head when they go into another room and sit down.

I know this place; I’ve been here before. This is something I’m convinced is true. It _feels_ true, in the same way everything else I’ve come to accept as truth feels right.

But rationally it’s impossible. I’ve never been here before; I’d remember it.

But I knew the fire escape. And I know the bricks across from me. I know what rooms there windows face into. I know the angle necessary to adjust for gravity—

I shot someone here.

I shot _Fury_ here.

How could I forget that? I _knew_ that, a month ago! How could I forget that already?

I slam my right fist hard into the concrete of the roof siding. It hurts, a lot, but I ignore it and turn away from the apartment. I don’t want to watch anymore. I feel tired, and hurt. My right hand aches and burns when I move my fingers, and there’s a bone-deep pain in my chest. That one I can’t explain.

I take a deep breath before I start to climb down the fire escape, but it doesn’t help. I work my way through the maze of metal using only my left arm, my right tucked up close to my chest so I don’t do it any more damage.

Both my pains, one next to the other.

That’s probably poetic.

What the fuck is poetic?

 

June 1 2014 Commander Rogers’ Apartment

Sam had left hours ago. The empty beer cans were still strewn about the living room. The lights were still on. Steve hadn’t moved from the chair, only leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to feel. He really wished he could get drunk.

It wasn’t _fair._ It wasn’t fair at all. Why did this shit always happen to him? Wars, world disaster, criminally insane people doing horrific things. Why couldn’t anyone else deal with this stuff? Oh, yeah.

“They’d fuck it up.” Steve muttered to himself in a rare moment of profanity.

“That’s pretty strong for you, Cap.” A voice came out of nowhere and Steve jerked awake, eyes wide and half out of his chair before he noticed the gun a foot from his head.

“Easy, big guy.” The voice intoned and Steve eased back into the chair before flicking his eyes up to the intruder’s face. He was wearing a mask that completely covered it, white with black stripes and two eye-holes. But Steve knew exactly who it was.

“Rumlow.” He could hear the bitterness in his voice, knew this was about as close to hate as he got. He could feel it in his tight muscles as he clenched and unclenched his hands around the arms of the chair.

“It’s been too long, Cap.” Rumlow replied, and Steve could hear something in Rumlow’s voice, something that did not bode well for him.

“Not long enough.”

Rumlow laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes as they stayed fixed on Steve. His gun didn’t waver.

“Hoping I was dead?” Rumlow asked, the humor draining from his voice. “I nearly did, when you brought everything crashing to an end. You killed a lot of good people, Cap, a lot of friends of mine-“

“No one’s good if they’re Hydra.” Steve bit back, even as Rumlow tried to keep talking. There was a moment of silence as Rumlow processed Steve’s words, then a sudden flurry of movement, too sudden and too quick for Steve to follow. His head snapped to the side, pain in his cheek. Steve raised a slow hand up and it came away red. He could taste blood in his mouth, too.

He looked back up at Rumlow, the tip of his gun slightly glistening. His eyes were narrowed and Steve could see the anger lines in his body. He’d gotten faster.

“Hydra’s going to change the world; make it a better, safer place. You’re just too blind to see that.” Rumlow growled.

“Ruling through terror is not ‘better.’ I’m not going to let you do that.” Steve said with conviction.

“You can’t even save your boyfriend; what do you-“ There was ridiculousness in Rumlow’s voice, and Steve knew who he was talking about immediately.

Steve was on his feet before he could think, and he considered it a victory when Rumlow took an involuntary step back. He may have gotten faster somehow, but Steve hadn’t slowed down.

“Careful, Rogers. Bullet this close might just kill you.” Rumlow said, voice low and careful.

“What did you do to Bucky?” There was hard anger in Steve’s voice, but also brittle desperation. Hydra _couldn’t_ have caught up with Bucky yet. They just couldn’t.

“What, your boyfriend?” Rumlow asked, then laughed. “He’s a great asset to Hydra, did you know that? It’s what he’s called: the asset.”

“Rumlow, if you-“ Steve started and took a step forward. Rumlow moved forward this time, too, and Steve could feel the cold metal of the barrel of the handgun against his forehead.

“You so much as twitch, I pull this trigger. We’ll see if the super soldier serum can pull you back from that one.” Rumlow said, and Steve froze, his eyes locked on Rumlow’s.

“Hah, Cap.” Rumlow’s eyes crinkled as if he was smiling. “He’s such a good little soldier. He came to me.”

Steve stopped breathing. Rumlow was lying; he had to be. Bucky wouldn’t—Bucky knew that—

Rumlow as still talking, and Steve forced himself to listen, because as much as he didn’t want to deal with Rumlow and his propaganda, he might say something important and Steve couldn’t take risks, with a gun to his head.

“—never fights us. Does Hydra’s good work of his own accord. He’s become such a master of death, Cap. He’s a pleasure to work with. Pity it’s over.”

Steve can feel the pain in his chest unwind at Rumlow’s last sentence. Bucky ran away, surely that’s what he means. But Rumlow snickers and Steve’s sure he could see the relief in his body.

“Yeah, he ran Cap. Is that what you wanted him to do?” Rumlow laughed at some private joke. “I think you fucked him up, Cap, got him all confused. He jumped into a river and’s been sitting on the bottom for two days. That’s a long time to hold your breath, even for the asset.”

“You’re lying.” Steve found himself saying. And he hoped to God he was right.

But Rumlow shook his head. “Nope. This is too good to make up. See, Cap, He was dreaming about you.” And Rumlow dug his free hand into a pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled papers with sloppy, black-inked words covering them. “Dreaming about you, writing about you. And he couldn’t take it anymore and pitched himself off a bridge. If you hadn’t tried to fill his head with lies, this wouldn’t have happened. He wasn’t your boyfriend anymore…”

Steve wasn’t listening again. Bucky was dreaming about him? Did he really kill himself? Bucky wouldn’t have done that; Bucky would have gone to him, if he remembered. Rumlow was lying. So either Bucky was alive or… or Rumlow had killed him.

Steve turned his eyes back to Rumlow and could feel even more hate running through him that before. Rumlow was going to pay.

Steve swung his arm up in an arc while Rumlow was still talking, catching him off-guard. He succeeded in knocking the gun mostly away from his forehead, but it still went off and Steve could feel the bullet rip through the top part of his ear even as gunpowder danced fire over his skin. The gunshot knocked out the hearing to his ear and he stumbled, momentarily disoriented.

Rumlow tried to bring the gun around for another shot, but Steve caught it fast enough to grab his wrist in one hand and twist hard enough to make him drop the gun as me moved his body to put his back to Rumlow’s chest. He threw his elbow back into Rumlow’s stomach, just below his ribcage.

Rumlow grunted, but reached his good hand around to grab Steve’s wounded ear and pull. Steve gasped and moved a hand up to grab Rumlow’s. Rumlow ripped his other hand free of Steve’s grip and grabbed onto the back of Steve’s neck, pushing him forward into a bookcase.

Remarkably, the bookcase didn’t fall over, and Steve hooked one leg in-between Rumlow’s, kicking his knee out. Rumlow dropped down and sideways, giving Steve a chance to pull and way and clap a hand to his throbbing ear. His eyes moved to his shield, but it was on the other side of Rumlow from him, and Rumlow was already getting back to his feet, one hand behind his back.

He stood and moved his hand, and Steve could see he had another handgun. He launched himself forward as Rumlow got the gun straight and fired but the shot went wide. Steve pushed his arm out of the way, but held on, and threw a punch with all his shoulder and forward momentum behind it.

Rumlow’s head snapped to the side and he tipped backward, but he had a death grip on Steve’s shirt and Steve overbalanced with the weight of the two of them. They crashed down together in an untidy heap.

Steve heard the gun clatter away, saw it slide under the bookshelf into the other room. He tried to twist away and get up, but Rumlow had his wrist and wrapped his leg around Steve’s, causing him to dive head-first into the floor.

Rumlow was on top of him in a second, twisting his arm around to his back like he was trying to break it and pressing his skull into the floor. Steve squeezed his eyes shut against the pain and bucked up, tipping Rumlow head-over-heels onto the floor in front of him. He stood quickly, and pressed his hand to his forehead as the blood rushed away.

Rumlow pulled himself up off the floor and wiped the blood trail running from the corner of his mouth. They were both breathing heavily and for a moment they just stared at each other.

“No stun baton?” Steve gasped, thinking of the last time they’d done this, and Rumlow laughed.

“Don’t need it anymore. See, Rogers, what’s in you is in me, too. Some of that special serum. The Russians helped Zola figure out how to create their own version, back when they were still funding us. That was a long time ago.” Rumlow paused. “The asset had some, too. Got it right after he got his metal arm. They say he almost died when they implanted that thing; the pain must have been excruciating, but, order only comes through pain-“

Steve dived forward again, throwing another punch but Rumlow dodged out of the way, catching Steve’s arm and throwing a short punch of his own into Steve’s gut. He grunted and threw his elbow into Rumlow’s mask where his nose should have been, the satisfying crunch of bone filling the room. There was a crack running the length of the mask. Rumlow wheeled back and Steve grabbed his shoulder, throwing another punch and then another.

They ran into the bookcase again and this time it collapsed, Rumlow and Steve falling through the boards, book, and memorabilia in a tangled pile. Rumlow twisted and there was a sudden, sharp pain in Steve’s gut. He could feel something – a knife? – digging into his ribs. He gasped out and could taste blood in his mouth, feel a warm liquid in his throat. He coughed involuntarily as Rumlow twisted them around to straddle Steve’s hips.

Steve looked down as he coughed up more blood. A large fragment of wood was sticking out of his body, Rumlow’s fist wrapped around it.

“You’re going to _die,_ Cap.” Rumlow growled, shoving the splinter deeper in. Steve gasped then gagged on the blood. “You’re going to fucking pay for what you’ve do to Hydra.”

 

June 1 2014 Washington D.C.

It’s raining.

Of course it’s raining, what else would it do?

I’m just standing here, a block away from Steve’s apartment, getting rained on.

Whose side is the weather on, anyway?

I remember thinking—I was completely convinced he’d be a different person. And maybe he is; everyone thinks so fucking highly of him.

_But what if he’s not?_

Even I think highly of him. I remember that I used to actually _care_ about him. I’m not sure if I’m even capable of that emotion anymore. Steve. Stevie. Captain America.

What if he’s different now? Like I am?

But he’s _Steve_.

Seventy years in the future.

I don’t like the future.

I tilt my head up and stare at the rain. It hits my face in hard, cold drops and runs down my neck under my jacket and shirt that are already soaked through. It’s been raining a long time. It pretty much fits my mood.

Grey and overcast and depressing. And cold. And uncaring. And hard.  It’s ruthless, but I am broken. My right hand is, broken knuckles that are now held together with a splint improvised from a pile of gloves.

But that’s not the only way I’m broken. I’m splintered into two people.

I want to be Bucky, because I like Bucky’s life more than the assets. And Bucky would go to Steve. Bucky had faith in Steve. Belonged with Steve like the asset belonged with Pierce.

I can be Bucky, or I can be the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier would go to Rumlow.

We’ve been here before.

I don’t want to be the Winter Soldier.

I start walking down the alleyway toward the road that leads to Steve’s apartment.

 

June 1 2014 Commander Rogers’ Apartment

Steve wrapped his hand around Rumlow’s wrist to keep him from digging the wood any further in. Rumlow grabbed his other hand and pinned it next to his head before he could move it. He leaned in close, sweat and blood dripping off his face through the crack in his mask onto Steve’s face, a growl in his throat.

Steve bucked his head up, forehead hitting the mask again, and heard the sound of grinding bone, the mask cracking even more. Rumlow reared and roared in pain, and Steve shoved him off. He ripped the wood shard out of his side – he couldn’t fight with it in his chest, even if it meant he’d bleed more – and grabbed Rumlow’s flailing arm.

He twisted, putting his back to Rumlow’s chest again, but this time he had the proper leverage and flipped him over his back. Rumlow hit the floor with a satisfying thud. Rumlow curled in on himself and Steve stood up straight and gasped as the pain in his chest multiplied. He staggered back, pressing his hand to the wound. He needed something to stop the bleeding, he needed something quick.

Steve heard the sound of metal clicking and looked up to see Rumlow still on his knees, but gun in hand. He’d forgotten about that. Steve’s eyes flicked to his shield, now on his side of the apartment but still yards away. He dived behind the bookcase and heard one shot. He rolled over to his shield and heard another. He snatched the shield and folded his body behind it. Two more shots ricocheted off, then Rumlow yelled and the shots stopped.

Steve stuck his head above the shield, muscles tense and ready to duck back down. Rumlow was fighting with someone, but the lighting was poor and the bookcase was in the way; Steve didn’t know who it was. He couldn’t tell who was winning, either.

He stood slowly, but pain in his back made him pause. He cast one last, wary glance at the fighters, then dragged a hand over his shoulder. It came back red. Rumlow’s second shot, his mind supplied unhelpfully. He straightened his shoulders – painfully – and made his way around the bookcase.

Rumlow was relatively easy to pick out in his mask, but the other person, the stranger, was harder. Rumlow had his back pinned to a wall, but the stranger had a death grip around Rumlow’s throat. They were slowly sinking to the ground, Rumlow struggling less and less. Steve walked up to them and hit Rumlow again, ignoring the pain in his back, and he slumped completely to the ground, unconscious.

The stranger let go of Rumlow and stood quickly. There were no lights in the hallway, Steve couldn’t see his face, but strands of long, dark hair had fallen out of place and bracketed his face and his left wrist seemed silver between his sleeve and the cuff of his glove.

“Bucky?” Steve gasped, barely daring to hope. He could feel a hot, wet rivulet of blood run down his back.

The stranger was breathing hard, shoulders heaving, eyes gleaming in the dark. Steve could feel his stare on him, but couldn’t see his face. He assumed it was Bucky, and not the Winter Soldier, considering who he’d just incapacitated, but he had no real way of knowing. Steve was suddenly very aware this might not be over, and he felt far too tired. It wasn’t _fair._

“Come on, Bucky.” Steve muttered. He could hear the pain in his own voice. He backed away from the still-heaving stranger, letting his shield drop. Maybe he was half-delirious and seeing things, but he didn’t care. “If you’re going to kill me, just kill me. I don’t care anymore.”

The man moved forward slightly, the light from the living room catching his face – and it couldn’t be anyone _but_ Bucky – and Steve could see something, on his face, some emotion; pain, guilt, he couldn’t tell, but it was real. It was a prayer, and it was hope, that Bucky was alive and in there.

A sudden shot rang out, startling them all, and the stranger – Bucky – dropped down immediately. Steve dived forward, trying to put himself between Bucky and Rumlow, assuming that’s who was shooting, but Rumlow was still unconscious on the floor. So who-?

“Steve! Down!” Natasha’s voice rang clearly through the apartment as two more shots rang out, aimed behind Steve, at Bucky.

“Nat, stop!” Steve cried, panic now in his voice. “Stand down! It’s alright!” Steve spun to see Bucky running to the end of the hallway, Nat just entering it, standing between him and Bucky. She re-aimed even as Steve charged toward her. “Nat!”

She fired the barest second before he collided with her, sending them both sprawling, though he made sure not to land on her. He couldn’t stop his cry of pain as his ribs and back seemed to explode in agony. There was the sound of shattering glass and Steve looked up to see Bucky falling from the newly-broken window.

“No.” He tried to yell, but it came out more as a weak moan. His head was spinning; the whole world seemed to be rotating around him.

“Steve!” Sam’s voice was loud and near, his face suddenly over Steve’s. “Shit, you’ve lost a lot of blood. I’m calling for an ambulance.” The last was clearly directed to Natasha, but Steve didn’t hear her reply.

“Sam.” He forced out, grabbing the front of his friend’s t-shirt.

“Easy, buddy. We got you.” Sam said in a calming tone, putting his own had over Steve’s.

“No.” This was important, could they _tell?_ “Bucky. Tell Nat… stop.” Words were getting harder and harder to string together; it was more and more difficult to stay focused.

“Nat’s got everything under control, Steve. It’s okay, we’ve got it. It’s all okay.” Sam squeezed his friend’s hand reassuringly as he pressed his cell phone to his ear.

No, Steve thought, and his face crumpled in pain, both physical and emotional. Nothing was okay.

 

June 2 2014 Washington D.C.

I wake up with Steve’s voice still ringing in my ears. Something about a gnat, and not doing something, but he’d sounded so _pained_ —

Oh, shit oh _shit_ —

I push myself to my feet, gasping but otherwise ignoring the pain in my right upper arm and left back. My eyes flick around the kitchen of the house I broke into nervously. No one came down before at the sound of glass shattering – I was in no condition to pick the lock last night – and no onehas come down yet this morning, even though the clock on the stove says it’s almost seven am.

So either they are very sound, very late sleepers, or the house is temporarily empty. Either answer means I could be in very big trouble momentarily, and my eyes skate over the bloody supplies I still have laid out on the table. Vodka for cleaning the wounds, towels to help contain the blood, tweezers for removing the bullets, thread and needle for stitching myself back together – a novel experience, especially when it came to the hole in my back – and tape and gauze for added security over the stitches. Real medical tape. I was impressed.

I clean up as quickly and silently as I can, packing the bloody towels and gauze and bullets and glass into a plastic bag while I clean the rest of the supplies and return them to where I found them. Twenty-two minutes later I still have not been discovered. I leave the garbage bag on the table and climb the stairs to the second floor. The doors to all the bedrooms are open, the beds look unslept in. Vacation, then.

I can spare another ten minutes.

As I expected, the attack on Steve is already posted on the websites of the major news corporations. They’re claiming it was executed by the same man guilty of the failed attack on Tony Stark.

Well, they’re close.

Steve was transported to a local hospital, along with an unknown man present on the scene. That’s bullshit; they know who Rumlow is. Maybe not the newspaper, but they know. He’ll be under heavy guard. Steve, too, probably. Since it was him who was attacked.

I feel like this is my fault, somehow, though I don’t know what I could have done to change the outcome. Maybe go sooner, maybe kill Rumlow, I don’t know—I just hope Steve is alright. His condition was unknown. I hope to God he’s alright, or I don’t know what I’ll do.

I erase my history and close down the browser before going back upstairs. I pick the largest bedroom and start searching for clothing that might fit me. I believe a family lives here, and the would-be father’s clothes fit me well enough. They’re a little baggy, but mostly dark colors and I can hide in them. A red long-sleeve shirt, grey t-shirt, black jacket, black jeans, work boots, black skull cap.

I dump my bloody and ruined clothes in the garbage bag and tie it off. I leave the last of my money, all one hundred and eighty-two dollars, on the table. I don’t know if it’s even enough to cover replacing the window I broke to get into the house, but it’ll have to do.

I check the street address once I get out, blinking in the light. I need to turn right to get to the hospital, approximately five miles away. Public transportation is out of the question; walking will not take too long.

I think as I walk, because I know I can get where I’m going without paying attention. Multitasking is something I – well, one of us – is good at.

And that brings me to my problem. It’s not so easy to separate the Soldier and Bucky anymore.

My memories from last night are fragmented; I can’t always remember, exactly, what happened. I walked upstairs, stopped at Steve’s door, and heard the sound of fighting, so I broke the light just outside the apartment so it wouldn’t get in when I went in, and tried to sneak in that way.

I heard the gunshots, and ended up behind Rumlow largely by accident. I couldn’t really see Steve, but Rumlow was _right there_ and clearly shooting at Steve. And I think I panicked again. That same feeling, in my gut, where I can’t think quite clearly anymore, that’s what it felt like. And then it didn’t feel like anything.

It was as if someone threw a switch. It was as if I suddenly went on autopilot. Bucky doesn’t know how to fight like that; he’s not that good at hand-to-hand combat, so clearly the Soldier made an appearance. But I think the Soldier also decided to go after Rumlow. Because Bucky was panicking; Bucky wasn’t thinking, he was too worried about Steve. The Soldier was doing all the thinking then. And he stayed in charge until I woke up this morning, I think, because I don’t actually remember pulling out all those supplies. Bucky – me – knew where they went again this morning, but he didn’t pull them out.

It’s so… confused now. It used to be so simple. Bucky went with Steve; the Soldier went with Hydra. But now the Soldier has defended Steve, saved Steve’s life and attacked his handler. And while I’m not at all complaining, I don’t know what this means. I don’t know how this will affect me in the future.

And that’s a little scary, because I don’t want the Soldier coming out at bad moments, and maybe going so far as to attack Steve or someone else. I need to keep the Soldier on a tight leash; I need to be able to control him. Or else, I guess.

That’s… that’s scary. The idea that I might lose control to him again. Because I’ve fought really hard for this; I don’t want to lose it.

I let my thoughts go quiet for the rest of the walk. I pay more attention that necessary to where I’m going and who’s around me. When I come within a block of the hospital, though, that’s when I need to bay attention. I turn a block early, and sneak in the back why by helping carry in some kind of soda or something. No one looks at me twice. I dump my bag in a “hazardous materials” garbage slot. It’s the best place to hide blood.

I don’t know where I’m going, and I don’t have a plane for finding Steve. I figure a good bet is to try the ICU first, and surgery second, because he hasn’t been here for more than a handful of hours and he was bleeding very badly.

I sneak into the ICU, and not very many of the beds are occupied. This will be a quick search. It also helps that there’s a division’s-worth of SWAT, wearing complete uniforms and rifles, clustered around one room. I hang around the corner, eavesdropping. By the chatter, I think it’s Rumlow’s room. He didn’t seem as badly injured, so it makes sense he’d get out of surgery first.

I need to see him. I just do. I don’t know what I’m going to do; I just need to see him. Now. Actually, I might know. But regardless, I’m not getting in this way.

I go a long ways down the hall, stopping only to borrow a syringe off a nurse’s cart, then cross to the side of the building that houses Rumlow’s room. I don’t look at SWAT and hope they don’t mind me, either. I cross the empty room immediately to the windows and—yes! They open. All the way, too, not just a six-inch safety. Perfect.

I open the window and kick in the screen. I’m twelve stories up and the wind is chilly and strong. There’s a ledge, not a big one, and I’m thankful for the work boots and their superior grip. I dig a paper clip out of my pocket and slide it into my mouth and zip my jacket. I’m ten rooms down from Rumlow. That’s ten windows, or – figuring each room is about fifteen feet – a hundred and fifty feet. I’ll be counting both.

I step up onto the window frame and let my sense of balance adjust to the wind and my nerves adjust to the height. Bucky was always good with height and balance. He used to love the fire escapes at his parent’s apartment. He used it as his own sort of escape from his siblings. Until he met Steve, who couldn’t do the fire escape like he could. Who was likely to fall because he was so weak.

I step onto the ledge, about six inches, I decide. I suck in a breath through clenched teeth and step out completely, pushing the window closed behind me. I slide along the outside, counting the windows, counting my steps, estimating my distance. On the tenth window I stoop down, looking out of the corner of my eye. A man is in there, cuffed to the bed, his nose taped up, dark bruises covering his neck and lower jaw. He’s alone in the room, the curtains are drawn, the door’s closed.

Rumlow. And it’s almost too perfect.

I slide past the window and crouch down again. I take the paper clip out of my mouth, unfold it, and slide one end in between the window and the frame, where the lock is. After some fiddling, I get it unlocked and dig my fingernails into the window’s edge. It takes some work, but I get it open.

I kick in the screen and that finally gets his attention. I don’t look at him properly until I’m safely inside the room, though. I clean up the screen, shoving it out the window, but leave it open. I’m going to need a hasty exit.

Only now do I turn to Rumlow. He can talk; there’s no tube in his mouth this time, but he hasn’t said a word. I wonder if he knows it was me who he fought at Steve’s apartment. I wonder what he would think if he did know.

I walk to the bed, lean on the rail, watch the monitor with his heart rate. I can feel his eyes on me but it doesn’t bother me anymore like it used to. Eventually I look down at him.

“You took your sweet time reporting in.” He says, voice raspy. It must hurt to talk, I think, with bruises like that. “Where’ve you been? Why didn’t you kill Stark, you defective piece of shit.”

I look back up at the monitor. “I have a name, you know.” The sudden tension in his body is palpable and strangely pleasurable. He made me suffer, all those years, and I think I actually do hate him. For more than just attacking Steve, that is.

“James Buchanan Barnes. I go by Bucky.” I look back down, but not at his face. The heart rate monitor is on his finger and I take it off and put it on mine. Looking back at the screen, all his vitals are now mine, but there’s no significant change. Perfect.

“You’re the asset.” Rumlow says. “You do as I say.”

“I am two things.” I say slowly, leaning down to rest my elbows on the railing. “I am Bucky, and I am the Soldier. And… I get to choose who I want to be and when I want to be them. I even get to choose what they do.” Because at this point, that is nothing other than true. I can control the Soldier. I am controlling him. “I’m my own handler.”

“You are that asset.” Rumlow growls, a sneer on his face. “You have no identity, no _right-_ “

I shake my head, and with Rumlow’s every word my own confidence in my beliefs grows. I hold up my hand and look at the heart monitor on my finger. My heart rate is very slow, considering what I’m about to do.

I look Rumlow in the eye. “I was programed to kill bad people. I think you’re a bad person.” I pull the syringe out of my pocket and hold it up to the light. It’s labeled “morphine,” a full 300 mg of it; I don’t want to take any risks.

Rumlow’s breathing doesn’t change, but I would bet anything his heart rate has more than doubled. He knows what comes next.

Good. He deserves it.

I walk around the bed, careful to not pull the cord attached to the heart monitor. I reach the IV tubes and open up the special tube to inject extra liquids.

“Stop what you’re doing.” Rumlow says, and his voice is just the smallest bit strained. “I said stop. You have to take orders from me.”

I push the plunger down, slowly, and look Rumlow in the eye as I do. This choice; I like this choice. It’s so simple. Final. I don’t care if it makes me a murderer; I’m already that, what does one more man make a difference?

When the syringe is empty, I leave it on the table nearby. They’ll know what killed him anyway; find the excess drug in his system, and I wore gloves, so they can’t pin it on me. The only witness is a dead one.

I sit down on a chair next to Rumlow’s bed and watch. I just watch. Neither of us says anything – the deed’s already done; begging won’t do Rumlow any good. And he’s already proved he’s too good for that anyway. He won’t yell for help; too much like begging. So he will die. Here. In a hospital that could – would – save his sorry ass. Pride…

I can see why they were so desperate to work it out of me. They should have worked it out of all their agents. That would have been smart.

He never says anything, which is still pride, and we sit in silence. He never looks away from me, though, and I never look away from him. I get to watch as the morphine takes effect and his pupils dilate, and then his eyelids start to blink closed of their own accord before he forces them open again, only to have it repeat a moment later. I watch as his eyes close permanently and his breathing slows and then stops altogether. I lean forward and put two fingers on his neck and wait a full minute until his pulse stops.

I stand and look at the heart monitor again. My pulse is steady, strong, maybe a little fast, but apparently not enough to send the nurses running. I review all the buttons then pick the one I think is most likely to turn off sound. So the guards won’t hear it when it tries to scream that there’s no pulse. It will take the nurses at least thirty seconds to get through the door and that will be enough time.

I walk back over to Rumlow’s far side, the one closest to the window, and take the heart monitor off my finger and clip it back to his. I don’t wait, but turn to the window immediately. I jump up to the window ledge, moving to the building immediately; I don’t have any time to spare this round.

I move to the side, push the window closed, and start shuffling quickly back to the window I started at. I count windows and feet and I’m there in what feels like a heartbeat. I pry the window open again and slip inside. I close the window and silence suddenly fills the room. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears and the nurses as they scramble to get to Rumlow.

I killed Rumlow.

I didn’t think that through at all. I just… did it.

I didn’t think at all, actually.

Bet that was Bucky’s fault. He always held grudges.

 

June 2 2014 Washington D.C.

Steve was first aware of the steady beep of a heart monitor, and then of a needle in his arm. And he knew exactly where he was and why he couldn’t think straight. What he didn’t know what why he was in a hospital—

Oh. _Oh._ Oh, no—

He forced his eyes opened, imagined it happening quickly in his head, but in reality they took their sweet time. Everyone was standing at the foot of his bed; everyone less Fury, of course. He tried to say something, something like ‘why’d you shoot Bucky,’ but all that came out were incoherent groans. At least they got people’s attention.

“Steve.” Sam said immediately moving to stand next to him. “I’m glad you’re awake, man. You scared us.”

Steve swallowed, painfully, and forced his mouth to work. “Bucky.”

Sam glanced at the foot of the bed and Steve followed suit. Maria looked almost apologetic while Nat had an emotionless mask on.

“Barnes is dead, Rogers. And the Winter Soldier’s gone.” She told him, her voice flat and hollow. She looked tired, he decided.

“I’m sorry.” He told her, because he was. He was sorry about Clint, he was sorry she was tired, but mostly he was sorry he couldn’t give this up like she wanted him to. He was sorry it would bring her pain and that they’d fight over it, but he couldn’t stop.

He hoped she understood, and he thought maybe she did when something flashed behind her eyes. She didn’t say anything.

“Take it easy, man. You’re safe here.” Sam told him, put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and Steve forced himself to relax, to simply stare at the celling. He really disliked hospitals.

 

June 2 2014 Washington D.C.

I was standing two rooms away from Steve’s, leaning on the door with my head down like I was grieving or worrying or crying, and no one bothered me even though the nurses would have known the room was perfectly empty, had they paid attention. People can be so blind, sometimes. Though, I suppose the nurses and cops all have an excuse, trying to figure out what happened with Rumlow, but still. I could be the guilty party; someone should come talk to me.

I should stop giving them suggestions.

Three people step out of Steve’s room: the winged man, Natasha Romanov – who shot at me – and Maria Hill. The winged man says something about giving Steve space, and they just stand awkwardly outside the room. They look like they’ve just had a disagreement of some type, and aren’t happy with each other but don’t want to talk about it.

Eventually, then notice the cops and the hustle and the chaos, and they work their way down the hall and around the corner, wondering about what was going on. There are no guards on Steve’s door. I doubt there are guards inside. It’s too perfect, and part of me – the Soldier, I’m sure – wants to turn and run, but I know that will never happen. Instead, I wait barely a minute before walking quickly down the hall and opening Steve’s door silently.

He’s lying on the hospital bed, all hooked up to wires, with a blood transfusion and undoubtedly morphine, and a bandage around his head and what did Rumlow do to his head and he’s staring at the celling and looks so sad.

I frown and push the door closed with a click. He looks up at me, and I can see in his eyes that he doesn’t recognize me. We stare at each other for a long moment, and I don’t know what to say even though I know I need to say _something._ And then I can see the exact moment that he recognizes me, and his expression changes completely.

“Bucky.” He says, and his voice sounds harsh and tired. I nod my head, because I can’t find words. He tries to sit up and winces and that, at least, gets me moving.

I walk over – okay, I practically run over – and put my hand, my flesh hand, on his shoulder and push him gently back down and shake my head because there still aren’t words. And then I move my hand because who am _I_ to tell him what to do? But he drops back anyway, so I force myself not to worry about it.

“Bucky.” He croaks again, and maybe he wants an actual answer, rather the stupid nodding that I’ve been doing.

“It’s me, Steve.” I say, and my voice sounds as ruined as his. He reaches out his fingers, brushing my leg as if he doesn’t quite believe I’m here. The touch startles me, and I jump away, but he looks so sad and maybe a little  hurt that I reach out and grab his hand, because that’s okay.

“He said you were dead.” Steve mutters, staring at me. ‘He’ being Rumlow, I’m certain.

“He wished.” I retort, and Steve almost smiles.

“He said you jumped into a river.” Oh. Interesting. Tracker in my clothes. Interesting. No wonder he couldn’t find me.

“His mistake.” I say, and Steve squeezes my hand tighter.

“I’m so glad you’re here.” I don’t know how to respond to that, but Steve just keeps talking. “I’m so sorry, Buck. About…about everything.” I frown but Steve doesn’t stop. “I want to help; I want to do anything I can to help, just tell me what you need-“

“What?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“I want to help you?” Steve frowns. “What’s wrong?”

I don’t know what I expected from this, but Steve apologizing and wanting to help _me_ somehow wasn’t even on my list. I liked making my own choices, but that couldn’t last, that I’d have to choose someone to make them for me because I can’t do that, and that was what Steve was supposed to do—

And he’s staring at me with this really worried look, and I feel bad for that, and I must have make a mistake somehow, but I can’t explain to _myself_ what I’m thinking, what am I supposed to say to _him?_

“Bucky, talk to me. Please.” Steve pleads with me, and I lick my lips. I don’t know the right answer. I choose honesty, even though it might get me in trouble; Steve deserves that, I think. I do _not_ think about how Pierce deserved honesty in the same way.

“I don’t know. Why- What- Help.” I take a deep breath. “How does ‘help’ work? I don’t- I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I don’t want anything from you. What are you talking about?” Steve’s frown deepens, and he looks very…worried.

I don’t understand his confusion. Maybe he wants to reaffirm _I_ understand? “You’re in charge, you make the decisions about what I do.”

Steve looks immediately horrified, then a blank mask falls into place and I drop my eyes, because I know I made a mistake. There’s a long stretch of unhappy silence before Steve says anything.

“You make your own decisions now. No one’s going to control you. You don’t have to listen to anyone.” Steve’s voice is very careful, but the even tone sounds fake somehow. My mind stutters to a stop, because I can’t make my own choices _permanently._ A day is fine, and indulgence I’d pay for later. When I need to is necessary, though it is to be avoided at all costs. But—

“Forever?” I can’t make myself look up, or stop myself from hunching in because I should understand what he wants from me by now. And he has to be made at me for not, by now.

“Of course.”

“That’s not funny.” I blurt out, and then clap a hand over my mouth because I can’t believe I just said that.

“It’s not a joke, Bucky.” And Steve’s fake calm finally cracks, but instead of anger, I hear pain. Have I really disappointed him that much?

And then his words register, and I—no. Not fair. Stop it, stop. It. I look up at him, and he looks sad, and hurt, but honest.

“I can do whatever I want.” I say with disbelief thick in my voice, and he nods, looks a little happier. Like he’s pleased I understand. “ _Whatever_ I want.” And he nods again, remarkably patient. “So I could kill Rumlow?” The fact that I’m responsible for that was going to be my secret, because I didn’t think that Steve would approve. Therefore, though, it seems a good test of his assertions.

Steve seems caught between pain and amusement when I ask. “That’s not fair.”

What? “So I _can’t_ do whatever I want.” Why didn’t he just say that?

“No, you can, it’s just. I don’t want you to kill anyone.” Yes, I knew that already, Steve. That’s not the point.

“But I could do it if I wanted.”

Steve takes a breath. “You don’t ask the easy questions, do you?” I don’t know what to say to that, but he keeps talking before I get the chance to respond. “If you felt it was necessary.”

I take a deep breath, my eyes drifting away from Steve. I can make my own choices. Forever. It seems…

I’ve been here, before. After Stark. In New York. But then it felt temporary. Now it’s permanent. I…I could get used to this. I mean, I’d been doing alright before, before Rumlow and again in New York and just last night—

I’m really allowed to do this?

Steve’s got my hand in a death grip and I look down at it. It’s like he’s afraid I’m going to disappear into a puff of smoke. I lick my lips. I have to decide what I want.

 “I-“ The words don’t come as easily as I’d like, but Steve is as patient as always and waits. “I think-I _want_ …to-to stay with you.” I don’t know why, but the words sound true. And if this doesn’t work out, I can just leave. Right?

Steve takes a breath and I look at his face again. He’s smiling, and it makes me smile, just a little. "I’d like it if you’d stay with me.” He says, and I nod.

We lapse into silence again, but it’s not as oppressive this time. My eyes travel down Steve’s body, taking in the bandage over his ribs, and the tape over his chest marking another wound on his back, and the way his ear’s taped up.

I’m suddenly glad I killed Rumlow.

Steve must see me looking and must see my worry, because he squeezes my hand even tighter. “I’m okay. You know I’ve lived through worse.” And I’m sure that’s true, because Steve wouldn’t lie, but I can’t remember it.

There are more footsteps in the hallway now, more radios going off, more people shouting. Rumlow’s death must have caused quite a stir. Someone might come in to check on Steve. Some part of me realizes I can’t be here when that happens.

“I need to go.” I say, and then I realize the reason must not be obvious when Steve looks so _hurt_ – and then I remember he doesn’t know about Rumlow, so of course he doesn’t know why I have to go. “The police are coming.” He doesn’t need to know about Rumlow yet. “I can’t be here if they come in.”

Steve looks less hurt and more sad, but at least he understands as he nods yes. I swallow, because I don’t really _want_ to go – I finally get to make my own choices and I still don’t get what I want – and I work my hand out of his before going to the door. I open it, and check the hallway. No one’s looking at me and Steve’ friends still aren’t back.

I’m ready to leave when I hear Steve’s voice. “You shouldn’t have to run.”

I frown and close the door. “I-“ And I stop, because I was going to say ‘I killed people,’ when it hits me that some of those people were Steve’s friends. “Why are you even happy to see me?”

Steve’s frown deepens again. “You’re my best friend-“

“Who’s killed your other friends. And tried to kill them. And killed countless others.” I suddenly feel very filthy and despicable. Why would _anyone_ want me around? I’m a murderer. I knew that before – abstractly – but now I can feel the truth of it.

“That wasn’t you.” Steve tells me and there’s conviction in his voice. “That was the Winter Soldier; no one can blame you for that.”

I frown, unconvinced, but we need to do this later. I open and door again and check the hallway.

“You’ll come back, right?” Steve’s voice comes again. I close the door and turn to frown at him. He stares right back, unfazed.

“Yes.” I promise, then check the hallway a third time. Still clear. Remarkably. I slip out and close the door behind me. I force myself to walk away, down the hall, down the stairs, and I don’t stop until I’m a block away from the hospital.

My back hits the brick of the store and I feel light-headed. I look back in the direction of the hospital and feel sick. Sick to my stomach because the realization that I _am_ a murderer is really painful. I don’t know why, Barnes must still have some pride left; God knows the Soldier doesn’t.

I miss Steve already. I’m afraid I’m going to spin out of control, because I really don’t know what to do with myself – even if I can make my own decisions – and finding Steve, staying with him, was supposed to be direction, and he’s… not available to me. But Steve heals fast – faster than I do – and he’ll be out of the hospital quickly. I can wait. I will have to; they’ll probably post a guard now. And waiting is fine because it will give me time to decide how I feel about these new parts of me.

Murder and Independence.

 

June 3 2014 Washington D.C.

Steve forced himself to sit up. It hurt, but not as much as yesterday. The doctor said the wound to his ribs would take longer than normal to heal from, because of extreme damage. Steve hadn’t thought it was that bad. Just average damage.

Sam had come back shortly after Bucky left yesterday and told him Rumlow was dead. Steve knew it was Bucky, and, honestly, he didn’t really mind. Between the ways Rumlow had lied to him, beat up Sam, and whatever he undoubtedly did to Bucky, he deserved to die.

Steve didn’t tell anyone about Bucky’s visit, not yet. He needed to sort things out with Bucky first, and, really, he didn’t have a clue what he was going to say. It wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to with Bucky, either.

It worried him that Bucky didn’t have a sense of freewill, the fact that he obviously had some – even if he didn’t consciously recognize it yet – was the only reason he didn’t tell Sam about it. He still worried about Bucky out by himself, though. Steve knew he could take care of himself, but he was still clearly fighting Hydra’s influence, and Steve didn’t know how that would mess him up.

There was a knock on his door and Maria and Natasha entered, their faces empty masks. Steve was glad he was sitting up; it made him feel like he had more control over whatever unpleasant conversation they were about to have.

“I’m posting guards outside your room, Steve.” Maria said with no preamble. “Whoever killed Rumlow might be after you.”

“And the guards outside Rumlow’s room did him a lot of good.” Steve said back. That had been Sam’s biggest point; Rumlow had been killed with a shot of morphine, but no one could figure out how the perpetrator got into the room.

“They’re under standing orders to never leave you alone. Either one of us will have to be in here, or one of them.”

“I can take care of myself; I don’t need babysitters.” Steve argued, even though he knew it wasn’t going to work.

“Clearly.” Nat said, rolling her eyes around the room meaningfully.

“Rumlow’s dead. I’m pretty sure I can handle the rest of Hydra.”

“What about the Winter Soldier.” Nat looked Steve in the eye, and he stared back.

“We’re not having this conversation now.” Steve told her, and he didn’t look away.

“Steve, you have to understand that he’s still a threat, even to you. We haven’t been able to find him; he could be anywhere, go after anyone-“ Maria tried to stay.

“Rumlow said he was dead.” Steve told her, because it was close enough to the truth. They both looked startled. Maria looked like she might believe and wanted to go talk to people, but Nat narrowed her eyes at him like she did when she thought he was lying.

“You believe him?” Maria asked, and Steve looked away. He had, at the time. And he still believed that the Winter Soldier was gone, that Bucky had retaken at least partial control of his life and his body.

Maria didn’t stay long after that, and said a hasty goodbye as she left, adding that the guards were staying just in case. Nat hovered just a little longer, and it was clear she doubted Steve.

“If I find him, Steve, if I judge him as a threat, I will deal with him. I’m sorry.” She talked over his protests. “But I will not allow him to kill anyone else.”

“Nat, go back to Clint. He needs you. The Winter Soldier’s gone.” Steve wasn’t used to giving Natasha advice, but she seemed to need it this time.

“The Winter Soldier and not Bucky?” She asked, and Steve blinked. “Be careful, Steve.” And then she was gone.

Steve collapsed back onto the bed, exhausted and sore all at once. He jumped when the door opened again, but it was only a guard coming in to keep an eye out. Steve nodded to his greeting impassively and went back to staring the celling.

 

June 3 2014 Washington D.C.

I’ve never heard of a homeless shelter before, but the idea is a good one. We could have used these in the 30s.

The lady at the table serving dinner gave me a strange look, probably questioning my clothing because I’m cleaner and better-dressed than everyone else in the shelter. My story is that some good soul gave me money for a new outfit, and what I’ve got is certainly warm enough to suffice.

The meal is hot, some kind of soup, and everyone gets one cup of coffee. I find a bunk not currently in use in a corner and savor the coffee. Make it last.

I used to have a collection of things, before Rumlow. Most of that was taken away from me when I got to Hydra. All but the notes-

Shit the _notes._

My writing. My mind. Everything. I left it at the safe house. I’d hidden it, of course. I didn’t want Rumlow reading it by accident. I have no clue if he found it, and no way of retrieving it. I don’t have any clue where the safe house is, and at the very least I’d need a map to even attempt figuring it out. Oh, shit I am in deep trouble. I’m never going to get that back.

I let my head thud against the wall heavily. I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want anyone to read that. I hope to God Rumlow didn’t read it. I pray he didn’t tell any of it to Steve, oh God that would be a nightmare.

 

June 4 2014 Washington D.C.

The shelter is the safest place for me. I learned that lesson quickly. A blurry photograph of the Soldier is on all major news stations, taken, mostly likely, that day on the bridge. When Steve pulled off my mask. Probably a traffic camera.

If America’s so free, why are there cameras everywhere? At least it’s better than London; I have several vague memories about trying to avoid the CCTV. It was a nightmare.

No one in the shelter looks twice at me. No one on the street did, either, but it’s better to stay here with my new baseball hat pulled low that no go out there and risk getting caught by police. I’m a murderer and they’d lock me up immediately.

I probably deserve that, but I don’t want it. And Steve insisted it wasn’t my fault, and as much as I do disagree with him, it does make me feel a little less guilty.

The shelter is always busy, people walking by my bunk every five minutes. I’m leaning against the wall facing out, my hand curled around one of Rumlow’s guns I don’t remember keeping, between the mattress and the wall, but I’ve given up opening my eyes for each of them. I just want some rest; as nice as this place is, I didn’t sleep well last night.

Footsteps approach, stopping every few steps. I turn and look, and there’s a red-headed woman looking at the faces of everyone she crosses paths with. She’s still several yards away, not looking in my direction.

I stand, tucking the gun into the front waistband of my pants, zipping my jacket closed over it. I hear her footsteps again as I walk away, and they aren’t stopping anymore.

I wind my way through the bunks, taking no purposeful route in an attempt to throw off any backup she might have. SHIELD is still gone, but I have to doubt she could find it somewhere if she wanted to.

I reach the front of the shelter with her still behind me. The exit leads out to an alleyway likely to be empty this time of day. I’m still injured slightly; my success in a fight would not be assured. I can’t stay here, though; she’ll catch up and the only difference would be location.

She worked for SHIELD. She was trained by Russians, like me. She’s a friend of Steve’s. She was protecting civilians on the bridge. There might be a third option…

I walk out of the shelter. The alleyway is empty. I unzip and strip my jacket off as her footsteps exit the shelter. I pull the gun out of my waistband and unload, safety, and drop it all in one smooth motion. I haven’t stopped walking yet. I hold my hands six inches from my sides, down by my hips but palms spread.

“Stop.” Her voice is clear, just loud enough for me to hear, not loud enough to be overheard. I freeze mid-step.

Her footsteps don’t stop, and she comes up on my right side, gun in hand, pointed at me.

“You killed Rumlow.” She says, and it’s not a question but I nod anyway. “Why didn’t you kill Stark?”

I don’t respond right away, because I don’t know the right answer. I decide on the truth, because if she’s done this herself, she might understand.

“He said there were always choices, and that everything was negotiable.”

“And you just took his word for it?” There’s disbelief in her voice. Maybe truth wasn’t such a good choice, but I don’t know what to say to make it better now, so I stick with honesty.

“It was the middle of the night and I don’t like Rumlow.” And I was feeling just a little bit guilty for killing his father, I think but no way I’m being that honest. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I still think you killed Rumlow.” She says, and I allow a small shrug. “Killing your handler. That’s big.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “You sound like you know.”

“Let’s skip the game; I’m not in the mood. You know I used to be a Russian asset, I know you used to be a Hydra asset. It’s been established that we’re both-“

“Broken.” I finish for her. “We’re both broken.”

She pauses, looking at me curiously. “How long has Barnes been on his way back?”

I take a deep breath, letting my eyes wander. The Soldier screams at me, but I ignore him. “A long time. Too long.” I add before I can stop myself. She just watches me. I shake my head and fuck it; I’m just going to tell her the truth. “Not quickly enough.”

“I can’t forgive you for what you did-“ Her voice is even, rational.

“Of course not.” I’m surprised you haven’t shot me yet.

“-And if you ever do anything again-“

“Fair enough.”

“-Or hurt Steve-“

“You don’t have to worry about that one.”

“-I will kill you.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She lowers her gun, looks down her nose at me slightly. “It would kill Steve if I shot you now.”

I press my lips together in a grimace and nod. “Probably.”

She watches me for a few seconds, then turns and leaves.

I wait until she’s gone before I relax. I turn and am surprised to find my gun and jacket where I left them. I reload the gun and slide it back into my waistband at the small of my back. I pull my jacket back on and exit the alleyway. Photograph or no, the shelter’s not safe anymore.

 

June 4 2014 Washington D.C.

By mid-morning the next day, Steve could sit upright with minimal pain and no painkillers. The doctors had already pulled the stiches from both injuries, and they’d healed nicely. There would be a scar, of course, but he’d just add it to his collection. Sharon came to see him that morning, worried and apologetic, and equally glad Rumlow was gone.

“Who do you think’s responsible?” Steve asked. He hadn’t seen Bucky since their one meeting, with good reason, but he still worried.

“We don’t know.” Sharon shrugged. “We can’t even figure out how he got in.”

“Maybe it’s a ghost.” Sam said, slipping into the room with several cups of coffee. Steve technically couldn’t have coffee, but all three of them agreed that particular rule could be broken.

“Oh, it was some kind of ghost.” Sharon agreed as she accepted at cup. “I just don’t think it was dead.”

“But Rumlow was Hydra; why would the Winter Soldier go after him?” Steve asked as he grabbed his own cup. It seemed like a good thing to point out.

“I don’t know.” Sharon rubbed her temples and sighed. “Maybe you’re right and his programming is falling apart.”

“But a week ago he was killing Avengers.” Sam argued, then muttered “Sorry” when Steve gave him a pained look.

Sharon nodded. “That is pretty fast to decide everything you’ve been told for the past 70 years is a lie. Granted, we don’t’ know how the Winter Soldier was trained, but I find it hard to believe it could all come apart in a week.”

“Maybe it’s not completely gone.” Steve allowed, thinking back to his conversation with Bucky. “Maybe part of it’s gone, or at least cracking.”

“It’s more realistic that he’s getting conflicting emotions ore signals now, and that’s why he’s being erratic. But I don’t think he’ll be able to pull out of this all by himself, if ever. Without knowing what was done to him, it’ll be very hard to help him get better again.”

Steve looked down into his coffee and swirled it around his cup. There was a long silence.

“Are you going to keep looking for him?” Sharon asked, and Steve glanced up.

“No, I think I’m going to give it a break.” He said, and Sam looked up startled. “He knows where I am, he’s been there once. It can be his move for a while.”

“You’re going to have a hard time convincing Hill not to station guards at your house.” Sharon said to her coffee cup, and Steve huffed a sigh.

“He can come stay with me if she doesn’t relent.” Sam said, and Steve looked up at him.

“You don’t have to.” He said immediately. Sam shrugged.

“I can’t let you do this by yourself, man.”

Sharon smiled. “Just don’t tell Hill, I guess. I if makes any difference, I’ll do what I can to help.”

“Thanks.” Steve said with a small smile.

 

June 4 2014 Washington D.C.

The guards show up at Steve’s apartment mid-afternoon. They sweep it and station themselves throughout. I have no doubt they’ve also planted microphones and cameras throughout. I hope Steve realizes there’s no way I’m going to his apartment when it’s in this state.

But when the sun goes down and Steve still hasn’t shown up, even the guards get antsy and worried. I leave the rooftop, climbing back down the fire escape.

So Steve didn’t go back to his apartment, but clearly he was expected to. He was released from the hospital, then, but went somewhere else. Where would Rogers go to hide? Brooklyn? He grew up there, but I’m not convinced he’d hide there.

Steve Rogers would trust his friends. He looked pretty close to the winged man; I need to find his name and address. Even if Steve isn’t there, the winged man might know where he is hiding. It’s a place to start if nothing else.

 

June 4 2014 Washington D.C.

I found the winged man’s name and address in a bit of a roundabout fashion, but that’s not important. His name is Sam Wilson, former Army, and he doesn’t live far from Steve’s apartment. I’m standing across the street, watching.

He keeps his blinds drawn, even thought it would be difficult to see inside unless you were trying to, which seems like a good indication that Steve is here. The only problem is, I don’t know how Wilson will react to me, as he is likely to answer the door, rather than Steve. I have to assume Steve’s told him about me, because I told Steve I’d come back. And that Steve wouldn’t stay with him if he wasn’t okay with me coming.

Or maybe Steve doesn’t want to be around me anymore.

I don’t like that option so I’m disregarding it. And while it’s Bucky’s biggest fear, the Soldier can logically say it is not very likely at all and not a risk worth consideration.

What can I say; sometimes it’s nice having two people in your head.

I walk to the front door and knock. After ten seconds I can hear footsteps approaching. Then the blinds jerk as someone fiddles with them. They snap up and Wilson’s face is there. He appears to take a deep breath before opening the door.

“Come on in. He’s been waiting for you.” He says, and I don’t think he trusts me very much. That’s fine with me; I don’t trust him very much, either.

I step through the door, and walk two steps past him, turning so my back’s to the wall, allowing me to see both ends of the hallway. Maybe I’m a little paranoid, but I haven’t seen Steve yet, and the Soldier is throwing warnings at me. I know Wilson is no match for me, though, and that is some small comfort.

He closes the door and the blinds fall shut as well. His muscles are tense and he looks hyperaware, and while I know I’m no different, it doesn’t help my own nerves. He turns, seems startled to see me staring at him, and for a long moment neither of us say anything.

“Bucky?” My head turns halfway at the sound of Steve’s voice, then stops and tries to turn back as the Soldier insists this is a trap then stops again and looks at Steve as Barnes says he doesn’t care.

Steve’s standing at the other end of the hallway, looking much better than last I saw him. He looks as nervous as I feel. The entire hallway reeks of tension, so thick it’s a physical curtain, and so fragile even a word could snap it. Not a good situation.

“Steve.” I force myself to say, and I keep my eyes on him even as Sam moves around behind me. Steve clearly trusts him, I might as well try.

“You want to go sit down?” Sam asks, moving into my line of sight, and I feel myself relax slightly. I take a deep breath.

“Okay.” I say with the barest of nods, looking back at Steve, who’s nodding also.

We relocate to the living room and I force myself to sit, even if I am perched on the edge of the chair. The Soldier isn’t happy, but I push it aside. Steve and Sam sit as well, which also helps me relax. I look at my feet because they seem the safest thing to stare at right now.

“I’m glad you came back.” Steve says eventually. “I…I was worried you wouldn’t be able to find us.”

I look up at him through my eyelashes and shrug before looking down again. “I wouldn’t have come if you’d gone back to your apartment.”

“We figured this’d be safer.” Steve agreed, and I can hear the bitter smile in his voice. It manages to coax one out of me, and I look back up at him.

The room lapses into an uncomfortable silence again. I have no idea what to say, what to talk about. There’s so much I feel like I should apologize for – for all the people I’ve killed, for almost killing him, for all of the destruction and problems I’ve caused. I just—I have no idea where to start. There’s just too much.

“I’m sorry but I have to ask.” Sam cuts the silence, and I look at him. “How much of you is Barnes and how much is…him?”

“Sam.” Steve says sharply, but I shake my head.

“No, it’s okay. It’s…” I snort. “You’re too good, Steve. It’s going to get you killed someday.”

“I trust you.” Steve says immediately, and I laugh, though there’s no humor in it.

“That’s kind of my point.” There’s another moment of silence before I force myself to answer Sam’s question. As important as it is, I don’t really want to address it. “I’m here- Bucky’s here; but the Soldier’s here, too. Just, not in control. Does that make sense?” I ask, because I’m probably crazy, and I don’t know if they can understand that.

Steve’s frowning and looks very sad, and Sam looks a little concerned.

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “I think so. Can you…deal with him?”

I can’t hold their eyes anymore and look back down at my feet. “Sure. Just don’t pull a knife on me.”

“No one here’s going to hurt you, Buck.” Steve says immediately, because of course he’s going to remind me of that. And I _know_ that, objectively, Steve; thank you very much. But that doesn’t mean that I – the Soldier? – is not worried. Or at the very least cautious.

“Steve’s right about that.” Sam agreed, after the silence stretched out again. I nod my assent, because they need to know I know.

The room is quiet again, and I’m getting kind of sick of it. It’s too quiet. I don’t know what I was expecting to happen when I showed up, but a lot of nothing was not high on the list. The silence only makes the tension worse.

Steve snorts, and I look up. He’s got a small, goofy grin on his face, and seems to be almost laughing internally. “This is ridiculous.” He says, and Sam nods and starts laughing in agreement. I watch them for a minute, but the humor is infectious and it’s not long before I’m smiling too.

Honestly smiling. Like in the video at the museum.

It feels good.

 

June 4 2014 Washington D.C.

“Well, I’m going to go see about dinner. You two can talk. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” Sam tells us as the laughter dies down. Steve nods his thanks and I feel like Sam’s making a tactful retreat. I appreciate it; I’d rather try to explain myself to only Steve. At least, for now.

The humor from just a moment ago is quick to fade as Steve turns back to me and I stare at my feet. I know what I need to say, but the words are hard to get out.

“I’m really glad you came, Buck.” Steve says softly. I don’t respond and he sucks in a breath. “You seemed… I mean, I was afraid-“

“I told you I’d come back, didn’t I?” I interrupt, because I remember this Steve, who didn’t know what to say when he got flustered. I just… remember someone shorter.

“Yeah, you did.” Steve says, and there’s genuine relief on his face.

I open my mouth, about to say ‘have a little faith,’ but I don’t think that’s a very fair thing for me to demand. Instead, I force myself to start talking about what really needs to be said. “I know nothing I say can make the fact that I tried to kill your friends any better-“

“ _Bucky-_ “ Steve says, voice strained, but I override him.

“But I want you to know I’ll try. I’ll do everything I can to try and make this whole mess better.” I force myself to look at Steve, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“I don’t blame you, Buck. And I know we can make this better.” He adds, as I open my mouth to protest. I still want to argue – he _should_ blame me – but I keep it to myself. He can think whatever he wants.

We sit in more silence again. I still feels uncomfortable, though slightly less tense than before. Steve clears his throat.

“Can I ask how much you remember about… before?” He sounds uncertain, and it takes me a moment to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Yeah. Um…” I sit up a little straighter and clear my throat, thinking back to the past month. “It’s… it’s a lot of impressions, usually brought about by smells or… names… or…” I trail off, thinking about Stark again. I swallow past the lump in my throat. “It’s not a lot of solid facts, just flashes of pictures or emotions.”

Steve nods. “Okay. You sound like you remember enough to know who I am, at least.”

“Well, I’ve been doing research, too.” I say with a shrug, the realize Steve must think I don’t remember him at all. “But I do remember you. More when you were… smaller.”

Steve smiled sadly. “You said you would always think of me as that skinny little kid from Brooklyn, too stupid to run away from a fight.”

“Well, you are.” I respond frankly. I remember the truth of it from back then, and I know its truth now; I can point to all the times where he really didn’t need to take that punch.

“Jerk.”

“Punk.” The word’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, along with a crooked smile, and I glance up at Steve to see a broader smile on his face.

There are footsteps, much too close to be in the kitchen, and I turn to see Sam approach the doorframe. He looks at me first, then Steve.

“Dinner’s done, if you actually eat dinner.” He and Steve share a smile, as if it’s an inside joke, and we get up to join him at the table. Dinner is good, simple. We spend it silence, but an easier silence than before. It’s as if, now that we all know each other, it’s okay to not have anything to say.

Sam offers me the couch, Steve offers me the bed. I take the couch, knowing full well I won’t sleep on either. I figure Steve at least should get a good night’s sleep.

 

June 5 2014 Washington D.C.

I wake up with a knot in my back, right between my shoulder blades. I sit up, roll my shoulders out, and abruptly panic because I actually _fell asleep._ I force myself to stop, calm down, because this is Steve and Sam and I would have woken up if anyone else had come in and everything is okay.

I find I’m the first one up, but not by much. Steve is up a matter of minutes later, and walks into the living room looking sleepy but not tired. He says good morning and we relocate to the kitchen to make coffee.

Steve talks as he works. He tells me about how coffee was a luxury in Brooklyn, and one of the few things he actually got me to share equally, instead of giving the majority to him. I remember that selflessness as he tells me the story, and I’m glad I was capable of it at one point in my life, even though I couldn’t do it anymore.

Steve talks about the Howling Commandoes next, about how we all ended up living off of coffee during the war, about how more often than not it was long, cold nights with not enough sleep. Maybe that’s why I like coffee so much now, why I cling to it like it’s hope in a cup.

The coffee Steve brews is dark and bitter, stronger than the other stuff I’ve been drinking, but I think it’s the best cup I’ve had yet. Steve and I both drink it black, smiling silently over our mugs as Sam shuffles in, muttering about super-soldier taste buds and adding a pound of sugar and cream.

After Sam finishes his first cup, he pours another, but sets it on the counter and pulls out eggs, ham, cheese, and spices from the refrigerator and cabinets. I mention something about never having those four things all at the same time, Sam looks like he doesn’t believe me, and Steve and I spend the next half-hour telling him about life in the Great Depression while he makes breakfast. I remember a lot more than I thought I did, now that I go looking for it. I guess Bucky Barnes really is still in there.

The omelets are good, warm and gooey and rich in a way I’m not familiar with. I tell Sam he’s a good cook and he laughs at me, but he looks pleased. I wash the dishes with Steve as Sam puts the unused ingredients away and it all feels very familiar, like I’ve done this all before. I suppose Bucky has, a long time ago, with a skinny kid a foot shorter.

But, bit by bit, I’m becoming more comfortable around this Steve, and I’m feeling less and less like _just_ an asset, _just_ an object. Steve treats me like a real person, and I like that. Sam does, too, and as Sam gets used to the idea of me, gets to know that I’m not volatile or dangerous – not really, anyway – and I learn those things about him, we become more and more comfortable around each other. I’m not relaxed, still; I’m still very aware of everyone and everything, but I don’t… worry about it quite so much anymore.

And then someone knocked on the door.

We all react differently, but instantaneously. Sam just looks up, eyes narrowed, at the door. Steve puts and hand on my shoulder and moves to put his body between me and the door. I duck my head and turn away slightly, trying to make myself smaller and more inconspicuous, though with only three people, it’s hard not to get attention.

“It’s probably Hill.” Sam says, and my mind spins for a moment before placing the name. Maria Hill, Fury’s right hand.

“She’ll probably want to post guards.” Steve says, worry in his voice, and I agree. I look over at Sam, who’s got a worried frown on his face.

“I’ll just go home.” Steve decides. “Then she won’t have any reason to put guards here.”

“But he might still be watched.” I argue, because that’s what Hydra would do when the targets split up like that.

“But you’ll have a better chance than if I stay here.” Steve turns to look me in the eye and my stomach drops. Of course I knew I’d have to leave; that doesn’t mean I like being reminded of it.

“I’m going to miss you.” Steve says and I bark a humorless laugh, because that’s all we seem to be doing; hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye. These last twelve hours are the most time we’ve spent together for… well, the last seventy years or so.

“Yeah. I’ll miss you too.” I mutter, looking at my feet, and suddenly Steve’s grabbing me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and I parrot the motion before I can think about it. A hug, I remember, this is called a hug.

It lasts for what feels like forever, before Hill knocks again and Steve pulls away, slapping my back. He looks at me for a long moment and I meet his eyes, before he turns and walks toward the door.

“Go to my room; close the door.” Sam points me in the right direction. “I’ll come get you when it’s safe to come out.” I feel his eyes follow me until the door closes behind me. I can feel Bucky slipping away slightly, the Soldier coming up and telling me I need to get moving. Sam and I are roughly the same size; at least some of his clothes should fit me.

I dig through his closet, swap out my jacket, steal a new hat, tuck my hair up under it with a rubber band so it doesn’t look long at all. I climb out the window, out of sight of Maria Hill and her soldiers, and retreat around to the back of the building quickly. I walk through the neighborhood in that direction until I hit the main part of the city, then go find the nearest train station. I need to get out of Washington.

 


	4. Epilogue

June 12 2014 Commander Rogers’ Apartment

“Fury said that stuff didn’t work for you.” Nat said, leaning back and against Clint’s good shoulder. He shifted to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer still.

Bruce shook his head. “It doesn’t keep the other guy away; it just slows my heartbeat down to the point where it almost stops. After that I Hulk out. That’s why Fury was able to use it to fake his death; that’s what I was keeping it for, too.”

“It worked. We all bought it.” Steve said, and Bruce smiled apologetically.

“It’s better to be dead, anyway. No one’s trying to kill you anymore.” Fury added, downing the last of his drink.

“But you’re still going to come around to the Tower.” Tony said, pointing an accusatory finger at Bruce and raising his eyebrows. The doorbell rung just as everyone laughed.

Steve stood to answer the door, and missed Bruce’s response, but he could hear everyone laughing again, and his smile grew.

A young woman, full of piercings and tattoos and clothes that were too small greeted Steve when he opened the door.

“You Steve Rogers?” She asked, tilting her hips and pushing out her lower lip.

“Who’s asking?” Steve responded, eyes scanning the street but there was no sign of anyone else.

“A man with long hair and a metal prosthetic asked me to give you this personally. Paid me two hundred dollars.” She thrust a plain white envelope at him, and Steve took it carefully. “He said to tell you he missed you, and to be patient, and that he was glad to hear about Bruce.” She turned on her heal and marched off.

Steve frowned at her retreating back before pushing the door closed. The envelope was heavy in his hand, some kind of thick rectangular object sealed inside. He ripped it open and tipped the contents into his hand: a single, cheap cell phone. Sent by a man with long hair and a metal arm—

Steve smiled again and curled his fist around the phone protectively, pressing it to his bowed forehead.

“You okay, Rogers?” Tony’s voice came out of the blue, and Steve looked up, startled.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just… got some bittersweet news, I guess.” Steve sucked in a breath and tucked the phone into his pocket. Tony walked over and clapped him on the back.

“On the bright side, that’s one step up from all-bad news. Come on; let me mix you a drink.” Tony pulled him toward the kitchen.

“I can’t get drunk, Tony. You know that.” Steve said automatically, but let Tony drag him around anyway.

“That is not the only reason to drink.” Tony argued, looking pointedly at Steve. “We’re going to celebrate your not-as-bad-as-it-could-be news.”

Steve smiled. “I’ll drink to that.”


End file.
